


The Mistress of Donwell

by Acciofirewhiskey



Category: AUSTEN Jane - Works, Emma - Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
Genre: F/M, I Mean Slow Burn, Marriage of Convenience, Slow Burn, and by slow burn, slight crossover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-11-15
Packaged: 2019-04-19 14:19:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 44,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14239119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acciofirewhiskey/pseuds/Acciofirewhiskey
Summary: Mr. George Knightley had never intended to install a mistress of Donwell Abbey, even when the inclination struck that the only wife he had ever desired already presided over a rather large estate near-adjacent to his own. So it was with great surprise that he found himself seriously considering a proposal of marriage to a different lady entirely: Jane Fairfax.





	1. Prologue

Before the sweltering heat of summer broke, Frank Churchill departed for the continent. Called home at news of his aunt’s worsening condition immediately following the expedition to Box Hill, he raced back to find that improved climate had been prescribed. So it was that the house in Richmond was shuttered quickly, Holland covers draped over all the fine furnishings, until the next wealthy invalid should let it, as Mr. and Mrs. Churchill—or Mrs. Churchill, rather—decided rather suddenly upon the scheme of following the doctors orders and changing their locale. They had been promised that being away from London’s putrid air and sounds would turn Mrs. Churchill’s ever-ill health, but she had not found it to be so. Her sights had shifted to Europe. While not exactly a Grand Tour, the genteel Geneva weather and the view of the Swiss Alps appeased the aunt and, most surprisingly, quieted the nephew’s continued ire and restlessness of spirit.

 

The dutiful housekeeper of Richmond would forward their letters onward, but it was two months before they reached their intended destination—enough time for the world to have completely altered. Enough time for Frank Churchill’s world to have failed to wait upon him, as it never had before in his life. In very fact, his world had shattered completely, but none of this was yet known.

 

Mrs. Weston most assuredly did not know and therefore failed to share _that_ portion. Rather, Frank Churchill left for more thrilling sights—to accompany his aunt to healthier climates, as Mrs. Weston told it.

 

Emma should hardly have believed it. She had never dared imagine that her particular friend had been serious in desiring a trot about the continent. Rather, Miss Woodhouse had surely imagined his goings-on nothing more than trifling flights of fancy. Rich and prosperous, indeed, she nearly envied him and failed to understand the looks from the Westons. This news had not distressed her, not truly, as they had feared. Frank was always going away again at a moment’s notice, and she doubted that this European disappearance would be of long duration.

 

Emma shook her head, walking back to Hartfield after her visit at Randalls; Box Hill had tempered her confidences in her own understandings. Perhaps Frank had always been quite serious in this intention, but she had simply refused to see it—such actions must be remedied. That very morning she had endeavored to rectify past mistakes. First she had gone to the see the Bates women, but Jane had begged off, Miss Bates declaring her quite ill after a night of letter writing, but as Emma made her way back home, a distance off, she could see Jane herself walking about a field. Frowning, she could not fault Miss Fairfax at the disapproval, which, it must be assumed, was on her aunt’s behalf. Miss Woodhouse could only imagine her own anger, should one of their acquaintance speak as she had spoken against her father’s oddities and inclinations.

 

She was like to never forgive them, and apparently, such was Jane Fairfax.

 

Emma entered back into Hartfield, calling out to her father, but when no reply returned, she presumed him asleep by the fire. However, the closer she drew, voices could be heard—more than one—and entering the drawing room that her father preferred in the early afternoon, she found not only her father, very much awake, but also Mr. Knightley and the apothecary Mr. Perry.

 

* * *

 

The thought had been on his mind for a fortnight at least, but their excursion to Box Hill had decided it: George Knightley must leave Highbury.

 

His regard for the daughter of his proximate neighbor, in both location and status, was not to be discarded lightly—nor with some considerable effort. He had first ignored it, then putting his mind to the task, willed it away, but she was too near for those stratagems. He must leave, or else this high regard, this _feeling_ , would overtake him and he would go mad with envy and desire in equal measure.

 

Setting his affairs in order, he decided to make a prolonged visit to his brother and sister-in-law at Brunswick Square. William Larkins was a very capable manager and Mr. Knightley had no fear that his absence would not cause the estate to much suffer. London, surely, would put his mind to rights, in spite of this surprising fixation. The strange turn, which must be a combination of seeing her, one whom he had known all her life, pursued for the very first time, and perhaps more than a little discomfort at his own age and continued solitary situation. Such ills could be moved past, aided by the bustle of the busy streets and the happy laughter to be found among his many nephews and nieces.

 

The final preparation he needed to accomplish was only to tell the Woodhouses of his impending departure. Walking over to Hartfield in the afternoon, as was his practice, was no great inconvenience to him, but he had put it off until all other tasks were completed. Such was his great desire to not have to see her, his Emma, after their short and sharp conversation the day previous.

 

Making the walk, one he had undertaken a thousands times, spending the evenings there as like as not, he realized that perhaps, the idea of those evenings ending too, had possibly brought on this strange and perplexing emotion. _Love,_ he ought to own to it at least. He had fallen in love with Emma Woodhouse, quite unwittingly and unwillingly (and it was not to be shaken off).

 

Yes, he must go to London, he thought as he entered the great house. He must tell them and set off straight away, but after he had found his old friend, Mr. Woodhouse, in his usual place for that time of day, alone, the daughter gone out, and begun to tell him of his travel plans, the older man’s face contorted, a hand clutching at his chest.

 

Acting quickly, Mr. Knightley, first called for one of the maids to summon Mr. Perry immediately, and then moved to help his friend to sit.

 

Throughout the years, since his wife’s untimely passing, Mr. Woodhouse had suffered under numerous ailments, both imagined and real, but truth be told, Mr. Knightley had never seen him look so stricken, and Mr. Woodhouse indeed, was not a young man. Water, his smelling salts, and a little bit of arrowroot were all called upon in their turn, as the two waited for the apothecary, Knightley knelt beside Mr. Woodhouse’s chair, directing the perplexed servants.

 

That too, was not a good sign, for they as well as he were well-used to the medical complaints of Mr. Woodhouse, but in this, they seemed particularly concerned at his appearance and complexion.

 

When Perry arrived and began his examination, Mr. Knightley busied himself at the window between listening to his proclamations, Mr. Woodhouse’s groans and watching for Emma’s return. He paced much the time.

 

Of course, Perry would choose to be at his most worthless at this exact moment. Upon, Mr. Woodhouse’s growing patronage throughout the years, Mr. Knightley had noticed a steady erosion of effort at independent judgment in the man and a clear move toward prescribing that which the patient thought best. It was most vexing, and Mr. Knightley for himself frequently called upon the doctor the other side of Donwell parish (a very regular Dr. Green) for his own rare complaints.

 

Mr. Perry at last, settled upon a combination of nerves, dehydration and over-heating, along with a general degradation of the indoor airs and need for further exercise. Mr. Knightley groaned at nearly the same time as Mr. Woodhouse—though for decidedly different causes. So distracted was Mr. Knightley at the prognosis, that he hardly heard the front door open and Emma make her steady approach.  

 

Her entrance erupted a new round of uproar, but between the servants, lay and gentlefolk, they had Mr. Woodhouse fanned, watered and quite cooled (after which a large fire was called to warm him back up) very quickly. The great lady turned her head, tears in her eyes, “Is there not something else we should do? Some other remedy? Why should he feel such pains?”

 

Mr. Knightley was quite undone at the sight. He would do anything in his power to put her at ease—such was the stupidity of a man in love, he thought to himself.

 

However, he was not the only one who should be so discomfited, for Mr. Perry stuttered about himself, for an answer to her question, and settled upon what must be the unlikeliest of answers: “Has the sir ever considered taking the waters at Bath?”

 

“Oh, good Lord,” Knightley let out. Mr. Perry had rattled off the most foolish of notions, and one that Mr. Woodhouse had absolutely no chance of accepting.

 

Emma spared him a short glance, for he never cursed in her presence, but turning back to the apothecary, she asked, looking up from where she knelt before her father, “Bath? Are you certain?” She posed the question amid her father’s declarations that he would not go _, no_ , he should not leave home, that, _no,_ there was nothing and no one that could prevail upon him to do so, and _no,_ surely Mr. Perry must know best of any that the air of Hartfield was the healthiest in England and sea-bathing the most dreadful and unhealthful of exercises?

 

The apothecary’s head bobbed between the father and the daughter, but ultimately chose to answer the Miss Woodhouse first, “It need not necessarily be Bath. Perhaps someplace nearer and less crowded? The waters of Cheltenham are quite popular.” Mr. Woodhouse gave up another cry of protest. “No sea-bathing then? What of the restorative waters of Epsom? It is hardly farther than a handful of miles, though not as fashionable a watering place.”

 

Mr. Knightley nearly laughed as Perry hung on to this fool’s notion. He ought admit it to be a silly idea, just a suggestion of the moment and that rest and tonic water would do as well. However, Emma let out a sob of her own. The three circled around her, but she was inconsolable, “Father, you must. If I were to lose you, I should not bear it.”

 

Her neighbor sighed and opened his mouth to tell her to control herself, that this was little more than the heat of the summer, stronger than usual (though of this, he was not sure himself), but Mr. Woodhouse spoke instead, “Alright, my dear, alright.” Taking her hands into his shaking own, he relented, and she was not the only one shedding tears. He would endeavor to make the journey, if only to please her, his dear child, “Please do not cry so, Emma dear.”

 

Mr. Knightley—and Mr. Perry too—were all astonishment. His surprise was such that he forgot that he had come to tell them of his own leave taking, and when they looked to him, asking if he should watch over Hartfield while they were gone, he nodded, dumbly. Of course he would watch over Hartfield for them.

 

In but a few days’ time, they were gone.

 

It would be a falsehood if he denied that their leaving simplified his own plans. He needed not to leave the village; they had been kind enough to do so for him. However, when in little over a fortnight, John wrote to his brother to tell him of the engagement of their Miss Emma Woodhouse to a Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, the second son of the Earl of Matlock, Mr. George Knightley realized the very great mistake he had made in staying behind.


	2. Chapter 1

Walking to town, Mr. Knightley attempted to clear his head. Though, checking on Hartfield was hardly an exercise where he would be able to think of something other than Emma Woodhouse and this sudden engagement. Truly, his frequent walks to and evenings wiled away at Hartfield among the Woodhouses were at an end, but not due to the expected culprit. She was free of Frank Churchill, but even farther from him than before. What had once been a vague fear and worry over the future—particularly after the man left the country—was now physical and imminent (and the villain unknown. Was he kind? Was he mercenary? Handsome? Tall?).

 

He took the longer route, failing to pass Mrs. Goddard’s school, for he expected that little Miss Harriet Smith had written likewise to her school mistress and classmates of the engagement, for Emma had asked Harriet to accompany them to Epsom. Her father would be busy much the days taking the waters, and she would be very much on her own without a lady’s companion. Once upon a time, Mrs. Weston—Miss Anne Taylor as was—would have supplied the companionship, but those days were long since past. Ostensibly, Miss Smith improved her mind and airs through her proximity to the leading family of the land, but Mr. Knightley had his doubts. She fanned Emma’s vanity and lofty thoughts of her own position. Perhaps Miss Smith was to blame for the engagement, her tendency to love those that first loved her, to love as she was bid was catching?

 

He scowled at the thought. Things were changing in Highbury, and Knightley knew not how he would survive this fresh state of things. The drowsy, chattering to be had in the halls of Hartfield was to be exchanged for the echoing silence of Donwell Abbey—all day, every day.

 

He _loved_ Donwell. Donwell was his life, but when John and the children were in London—and Lord, even when they were in Highbury, they spent their time at Hartfield to appease Mr. Woodhouse’s desirous needs—Mr. Knightley’s life would be as his days now: rather lonesome.

 

He shook his head. He had never been a lonely man. Since ascending from heir to owner and master of Donwell Abbey at such an early age, not even two years past reaching his majority, he had worked hard to return her to former glory. He had dearly loved and still missed his father and mother, but they had not been the most industrious of landlords, tending toward Mr. Woodhouse’ detached style of gentry. It was a different sort of master that George Knightley had sought to become. His first work had been to prepare the funds to put John to school. Donwell could not be broken apart to furnish multiple heirs (at least not at first) and thereby he continued through with his parent’s previous plan to set John up in the law.

 

The death and beginning the work of estate management had sobered the young master George, therefore, next, he sought out those who could instruct him. The steward, William Larkins, had been invaluable—and the only reason Donwell Abbey had not suffered further under his parent’s lax hands. The Old Mr. Martin too, had taught him much in the way of farming and agriculture. Other friendships had also served to guide him, gents he had made and met during his time at school. They and their fathers had offered suggestions as to investment practice. First, he had invested in updating and repairing Donwell’s acres and equipment, as well as investing in a handful of growing trade ventures (even investing a little with the Coles, to which the returns had been most agreeable). The relatively steady flow of income from the latter had maintained the former, and as surplus grew, he had repaired the estate proper, namely the house buildings and outcroppings. Second, he had turned his eye to expanding Donwell, and despite the significant cut it had caused to his ready funds, he had near-doubled the land holdings of the estate.

 

The most recent years had seen his consequence and influence increase as well, for when Sherriff Barret had asked him to become magistrate, his answer had been immediate. He had always been one to speak as to how things ought to be, and now he had the ability to assist in shaping the county as he saw fit. Holding the post for over a decade, he did believe himself to be just and fair, and though his understanding of the law would never be what John’s was, George Knightley believed himself to be making Donwell and Highbury reasonable, if not improved.

 

At present, his days were far from empty. He was a busy man, and money, which had flowed too freely under his parents’ hands, now was rather restricted, invested to the hilt under his own. There was little left for trifles, but that was hardly a concern for Knightley. The frugal man wanted for nothing and was generous with what he did have. He thought back to the last of the apples—those had not been an easy thing with which to part (and the scolding from his housekeeper more so), but Jane Fairfax’s appetite had been coaxed, and that pleased him enough to last through until next season. Perhaps he should call upon the Bates women on his way back from Hartfield, but he thought the better of it, looking down at the letters in his hand.

 

If he stopped, they would keep him too long, and he must post the letters. They pained him, but they must be sent.

 

He had written his reply with little thought to the actual words and turns of phrase. He had been shocked, utterly shocked. He _still_ was shocked: Emma engaged to be married. The thought was laughable.

 

She had written express to her sister and John, and at much urging from Isabella, no doubt, the brother had written George express of the news as well. The replies to which were a true blow, but they must be posted, one to his brother and one to his dear friends with words of congratulations (which he did not feel).

 

At least John had written as to the living arrangements. The colonel had nearly lost use of his leg in the war, that ailment being the one which brought him to Epsom (for some unknown reason the man quite detested Ramsgate and, as a result, all sea-side resorts), and not unlike Mr. Woodhouse, had garnered a personal invitation to indulge in a private home for the taking of tonic waters. There he had met Mr. Woodhouse, who had taken a liking to the man—most unusual—and invited him to dine with them, and what’s more, thereafter further invitations occurred for the colonel to spend his days with the Woodhouse party. From there, the attachment had grown quickly, overtaking them both—as his brother told it (surely dictated by his wife). The former colonel would move with them both to Hartfield, having no estate of his own. Not unlike Donwell, the Fitzwilliam holdings had been written up in such a way as to prevent the parceling of the estate. His monetary inheritance had been used to purchase the commission, the interest of which he lived upon until such a time as he married well, transitioned into another profession, or purchased his own estate.

 

The issue of single inheritance Knightley too had once encountered, and after John had completed his school and established his practice, together, in recent years, the brothers had taken great pains remove the offending legal clauses, should ever a master of Donwell need to provide for his nephews and nieces in the future. He wondered at the reticence of the Earl of Matlock to not do likewise—but those great families often saw it as a point of pride to maintain an estate unbroken by over-procreation. Kightley’s view, while still upholding the importance of estate management and family pride, was more liberal and realistic as to the nature of life.

 

So, the happy couple would live at Hartfield, caring for both the estate and the father who owned it. George thought uncharitably of his second nephew, John, who had been only just talked of as perhaps the heir presumptive to the Woodhouse estate should Emma make good on her word to never marry. Knightley too, wondered at the convenience of this stranger’s having fallen in love so quickly with an heiress worth £30,000 pounds, but to that his brother had also written that the Colonel had made his own fortune in the war prior to the injury, which compelled him to retire, and what’s more, to add what arguably was the deepest of wounds, Mr. Woodhouse and the future son-in-law were very nearly the best of friends it would seem, Emma had told her sister. It riled Knightley that his intimate friend should take so quickly to another, and it was this last injury that distracted the gentleman, so much so that he did not see Miss Fairfax.

 

She nearly fell, but quick movement on Knightley’s part caught her about the elbows. However, the jostling had brought on a coughing fit, to which she was so prone. Once recovered with the help of his handkerchief, they exchanged the proper bow, curtsy and how-do-you-do’s in proper course. After only a moment, searching his mind for the required niceties that were expected (even if one had just received the most devastating of news that very morning), he asked after her aunt and grandmother and her forthcoming position as a governess.

 

Indeed, Jane had taken the position procured by Mrs. Elton, but her illness, coming upon her more severely after returning from Box Hill, had prevented her from assuming the post directly. She was too ill to leave straight away, but word that she had accepted it had spread throughout the village. “I have written to request a little more time, to wait until the Campbells’ return, as they are due in only a few weeks’ time, sir.” She answered prettily. Going on, he learned that she would begin after the summer. She would visit with the Campbells, her health hopefully improved, and they would convey her to the Smallridge’s to begin her new life. Changing the subject, she added, “I have heard there is news from Epsom, Mr. Knightley, and,” she paused, her blue-gray eyes darting from his face to the lime walk and back again, “such tidings must be a surprise, I should think.” He blinked at her and without warning, felt his face color (something he had not experienced for many, many years). “That is to say, Miss Woodhouse spoke often of never marrying when we were young,” Jane clarified.

 

He cleared his throat, relieved that his own mind had jumped to conclusions, that Jane Fairfax did not know of his struggles, “Yes, that she did—and often too.” He spoke again, without truly willing himself to do so, “It is strange that an attachment should take her so quickly.” He stopped then, for he had meant to say that it was strange an attachment should displace Frank Churchill, but he had an inclination, which he thought not wrong, that such specification would unduly injure the poor creature before him.

 

“The heart is a strange thing, Mr. Knightley. One can hardly understand, nor tame its desires,” she offered in a sage and weary tone.

 

He looked at her then, and she returned his stare. It was the most honest he had ever heard Jane Fairfax, excepting on the top of Box Hill, when she had spoken of living past attachments made in public places. He knew then that yes, she had indeed guessed at his own struggles, and believed him to grasp hers. “Very true,” was all reply he could make, shocked at his transparency. He must change the subject, so he did: “Where do you walk to, Miss Fairfax?”

 

“Just walking, sir.”

 

He offered his elbow, “I must post my own congratulations and check upon Hartfield, would you wish to return to the village?”

 

She, after only a moment of thought, accepted, and together, they spoke of nothing but trivialities all the way back to Highbury proper.

 

* * *

 

Days passed, and while the Banns had not been read on Sunday, Mr. Knightley knew it was only a matter of time before the happy couple returned home. Unfortunately, it had been too late to cancel a dinner invitation to Randalls, where he had endured an evening of talk that was split between shock over the engagement announcement and desire to meet the young gentleman (for he was far closer to of an age with Miss Woodhouse, not yet thirty) who was said to be quite dashing. There was despair that the man was not Frank Churchill, for Mr. Kightley had been aware of the Westons’ deep hope for their two houses uniting through Frank and Emma, but he had not been able to share that specific lament.

 

Thankfully, the loving parents were only able to offer little news of the coxcomb: the Churchills had made it across the channel and the aunt, it was thought, faired a little better.

 

It was all more than Mr. Knightley could bear.

 

The next day was hardly more acceptable. He met with Mr. Cole on parish business, and naturally he had to pass through the village to arrive at the Coles’ and by such a time, word had spread about the village of their dear Miss Woodhouse soon to take a husband—and what a dear man he should be and so worthy of her too, for she would only choose a worthy suitor and in such short a time, and my word, did you hear he was the son of an earl? The chatter was quite inescapable.

 

Mr. Cole too, brought up the happy couple, adding, “So many weddings, first the Eltons, now Miss Woodhouse, and my wife is most certain that you, sir, are like to be next. Should we expect an announcement, eh now, Knightley?”

 

He scowled, “I believe I have already put that question to rest, Mr. Cole.”

 

The older man nodded, but his expression showed Mr. Knightley that he was not entirely convinced, though satisfied to drop the subject for the time being.

 

Returning to his home, he thought over the view. Marriage was spreading through Highbury like a plague, and with so few eligible ladies and gentlemen in question, it was only to be expected that speculation would fall to him. Likewise, Jane Fairfax had elicited such animation and delight upon her return home. Folk all about were desirous to see her settled and not confined to her plight (with the exception of her questionable friend, Mrs. Elton). There was no one for her to marry, the pitiable thing, and the only match she had enticed was hardly worth her spinster aunt’s cap.

 

Walking back, he spotted the girl in question, again walking aimlessly, though farther off and beneath the tree line—strangely enough, the threat of attack had hardly stymied her enthusiasm for the out-of-doors (or perhaps the beggars knew she was as poor as they). It was true, he must admit, she would be nearly penniless all her life, and Mr. Knightley was sorry for her.

 

Despite the much talked of salary that the Smallridge family had offered for the care of their three little girls, it could be no more than £30 pounds, and Jane was the type that would spend none of it, he knew, instead, sending it all back to her aunt and grandmother to increase their comfort. What was more, though the former Miss Taylor had enjoyed an enviable position at Hartfield, Mr. Knightley well knew that was hardly the norm for the vast majority of pretty, young governesses. The reality was far more bleak—possibly even dangerous—and the great friendship espoused by Mrs. Elton to the families close to the Smallridges would hardly deter the wicked from using one with little power if they’d a mind to do so. She deserved a better fate than poverty and ill-use, and he nearly felt sick at the thought of what her future might hold. The Bates ought to sell the pianoforte for the money it would bring in, but he imagined Jane would be hard pressed to part with the instrument (he had certainly been hard pressed to give up that silly little reading list that Emma had made so long ago in her childish efforts at competing with Miss Fairfax’s accomplishments).

 

It was a great pity that Churchill, the scoundrel, had abandoned any promises bandied about in Weymouth. It was a great pity, too, that she had not met anyone more steadfast, nor anyone to suit in Highbury or near-abouts. Thus, she must make her own way in the world, whatever that was to be. If she married, even without whatever affection she had felt for Frank Churchill, her situation would much improve. If she was willing to attach herself to Frank Churchill, then surely, anyone would do. He thought through the eligible Toms he knew, but most of his acquaintance were long since married and he did not make it a practice to mix with the young and unattached—too wild for his liking.

 

The notion struck him that truly, there was only one man in Highbury who could marry her, and he need not necessarily meet the future Mrs. Richard Fitzwilliam all alone.

 

He stopped in his walk instantly and let out a great laugh. How strange that his mind had slipped in the very thought that half the village had accused him of harboring, and what an idea: the ever single Mr. George Knightley finally falling in love with the impoverished but elegant Miss Jane Fairfax.

 

Emma and Mrs. Weston had dared ask after the idea, such was the seriousness of the town gossip, and now, after such vehement denials, here he was thinking of it again as a way to mend his lonely days. What a lark: his marrying Jane Fairfax. Shaking his head, he turned away from watching her and continued his walk back to Donwell Abbey, every so often chuckling at the strangeness of the mind’s meanderings.

 

* * *

 

However, as he sat in his home at Donwell, he pondered what his future now looked like, the landscape it presented. It could never be as it was. The Fitzwilliams would ever be at Highbury (though perhaps the colonel would take her name along with Hartfield—for Mr. Knightley could not yet fathom it the seat to any other family but Woodhouse). The couple would be at every function, every gathering. They would ever be among his circle—they would _be_ his circle, as the two principle families of the land.

 

He could not imagine enduring it—it would be intolerable, but he would not, _could not_ , leave Donwell.

 

Donwell Abbey was his home as much by rights, as by efforts. He had made Donwell what it was. He had repaired the degradation of the once-great estate, returning it to a place of unimpeachable admiration. He had improved upon it and the lands. He had introduced excellent tenants and better-treasured long-standing tenant families. This was his home and life’s work, and he was proud of it and his place in the country. He would not run away.

 

He would not.

 

However, the idea of encountering the Fitzwilliams every day, nearly every hour, alone and on his own was too much.

 

He could away to London for a time, but such a solution would only be temporary, and staying with the sister would hardly help him to forget, ever hearing of the newlywed’s life in Hartfield. He could travel, visit his handful of friends, but he did not like the idea of neglecting his duties in such a way, and for such a reason—lovesickness.

 

Of course, there was another option: he could amend his solitude.

 

He considered his own parents’ marriage. They had been particularly well-suited. They both had been of an outgoing sort, active and adequately liked by their neighbors. They had not been the most prudent, and certainly not economical, and perhaps it had been their matched personalities that made them so apt to encourage over-spending in the other. For many years, he had struggled to acknowledge their shortcomings as gentlefolk (and John, when rarely he did choose to talk of their late father and mother, only discussed what had been pleasant), but they had not been brilliant—fun and lovely, yes, but not excellent in their business conduct or even good sense. What they had left undone had taken much work on his part to put to rights—but they had been happy, and if memory did not lie, incandescently so. He could not recall them arguing (though perhaps that was the repair of time and grief). He could not imagine for himself a marriage equal in felicity, while also one that accounted for his own better sense, and so he had never given much thought to the endeavor. Years had passed and no woman appeared who he thought could make him happy and share in his burden of caring for Donwell Abbey, so a bachelor he had remained.

 

What was more, until now, he had never been in love.

 

Even the startling object of his desire was certainly not particularly well-suited. Indeed, he favored her open temperament, but she often enraged him, or even annoyed him with her meddling in the lives of others. She was young and foolish more often than not. She did well keeping the household accounts for Hartfield—he had checked them—and as the two major families of Highbury, such a joining would be well remarked (excepting, possibly, among the Eltons). Of course, too, the connection of their siblings would make such a match especially rejoiced upon, but it was not to be for all its positive and negative attributes, and, after all, he had long since reconciled himself to passing the estate over to his eldest nephew one day.

 

George Knightley had never intended to install a mistress of Donwell Abbey, even when the inclination struck that the only mistress he had ever desired already presided over a rather large estate near-adjacent to his own. So it was with great surprise that he found himself seriously considering a proposal of just such an arrangement to a different lady entirely: Jane Fairfax.

 

She was quite certainly, the only lady of his acquaintance who could make encountering the soon-to-be Emma Fitzwilliam tolerable—not because of Emma’s rather pointed dislike and jealousy of the lady in question—but because she was an elegant, accomplished young woman whom he had always admired. She was a woman who understood (and to his great mortification, guessed at) his present sufferings. She was prudent: one who knew what it was to be poor and therefore the need to be frugal in times of plenty. He had never met a more amiable and sensible young woman.

 

Finally, if she were to marry—if he were to marry her—she need not leave Highbury and risk her delicate health. He would care for her.

 

Sitting at his desk in his study, where he took care of all his estate work, he could not believe he was seriously considering the reasons for and against a proposal of marriage to Miss Jane Fairfax. Laughing to himself, he leant back in his chair, loosening his cravat. The summer heat continued, much to everyone’s consternation, his strawberries more than a little shriveled from the sun.

 

It would not be a love match. It would not even be a disinterested match, without regard to the material prospects provided by the other. Neither one cared for the other beyond mutual admiration (at least, he thought she admired him, but truth be told, he did not know for certain) and mild friendship. He would be marrying to stem the onslaught of loneliness (and, deep down, if he must be made to admit it, to distance and vex Emma), and she for reasons of financial comfort and protection.

 

She was a quiet girl and reserved. She was modest and private. She did not trust, clearly, beyond her family, but there were benefits to such traits. He could expect discretion from her, and few visits. He did not think her likely to ever over-spend, and having a good sort of education (for when the Colonel Campbell had come to Highbury to spirit her away he had taken tea with the man and enquired as to the girl’s education, feeling some protective spirit over the impoverished orphan). Quite possibly, they could do well together, she with her musical endeavors, and he…

 

He did not know what he would do with a wife, with the exception of when he took her out among their society to guard against darker feelings. He could imagine it now: the entire village would congratulate themselves at guessing at the affair weeks earlier.

 

They could not know how entirely wrong they were.

 

Though, for a wife with no money to her name, he could not find a more superior woman. She boasted many talents and what was more, everywhere she went, she was admired. She was a sweet young woman, and someday soon, work and poverty and the degradation of her situation would surely make her a miserable creature (not that Frank Churchill would have done her much better), but if he married her, she would live long and healthy. She would not risk her well-being to support herself and her family, and he would not have to face Hartfield alone.

 

He tried to imagine what life would be like with a wife, with _Jane Fairfax_ as his wife. He could hardly do so. Though, in truth, his life needed not necessarily change overmuch. She could while away her hours at an instrument, though he would need to purchase a better one, if she accepted, the harpsichord of his mother’s being quite outdated—

 

He shook his head, dropping his quill down into the ink well with more force than necessary. He could not believe he was seriously considering this scheme. He was no better than Emma with her matches and dolls.

 

He growled to himself, he had let himself think of her again.

 

At their departure he had endeavored to learn indifference to Miss Emma Woodhouse. He had sought not to think of her, but frequent walks to Hartfield to convey with the manager, and then his brother’s letter had smashed his efforts to pieces. There was hardly an hour when she did not cross his mind and renew his sufferings. “This will not do,” he spoke aloud. Then, to his great shame, he realized that such _was_ his future, ever thinking of Emma Woodhouse—no, Emma Fitzwilliam—and talking to himself like an old man, pacing the empty halls of Donwell Abbey, counting the days until John and the children visited.

 

 _This is too much_ , he thought to himself (silently, this time). Standing up, Knightley made his decision, as he did all his decisions: with an immediacy and steadiness of purpose. He would not deviate from this path. He would walk to the village and he would make her an offer straight away.

 

There was no turning back now (he stopped his walk only three times, but a deep breath set him forward on his chosen path again).


	3. Chapter 2

Arriving at the rooms let by the Bates women took some time, as he was stopped often in the village proper, and for once, he did not linger in greeting and niceties. His mind was troubled, and he needed to see this errand through, or else he may yet turn back and forget he had ever considered such a scheme. He thought to Robert Martin. Knightley had seen him turn back, that long ago day last fall when he had walked to ask for the blessing to marry Miss Smith. It was only but a moment, before Mr. Knightley had spotted him and called out, welcoming him into the study at Donwell. The youth had said his mind was set, but Knightley had seen him turn. Likewise, the master of Donwell would not turn back now, though he lacked Robert Martin’s mad love.

 

He had no love. He enjoyed the sight of her. Her playing was exceptional and the hearing gave him much pleasure. Seeing her ill or ill-used distressed him. These were not love. These were concern and mild kindness. Would these be enough? He did not know, but he would persist. At long last (and the distance had never felt so far before between Donwell and their apartments), Mr. Knightley called upon the Mrs. and Miss Bates, but was displeased to find that Jane Fairfax was not with them. He inquired after her, and was told that she was out walking. _Of course_ , _she was walking_ , he thought. _She was always out walking._

After a prolonged conversation (such always were the conversations at the Bates’ small apartments), he took his leave of the women, promising to call again soon, and put forward an offering to dine with him at Donwell later in the week. Though the moment the words had left his mouth, he regretted them. What if Jane Fairfax declined his offer? Would not that make for the most mortifying of evenings? Alas, in this also, it was too late to turn back.

 

Leaving, he happened upon her not far from Hartfield, though nearer to Randalls. _Was she thinking of Frank_ , he wondered to himself. He tipped his hat to her curtsy, but as she neared, he stopped her, “I just called upon your aunt and grandmother, and you were not there, but I see you were out.” He grimaced at the ugly sentence; he had hoped for something less inane and more charming than what was patently obvious. He withheld the desire to kick at the dusty road beneath them at his stupidity, but that would certainly not improve her estimation of him.

 

Her expression showed her confusion at him (whether his words or his manner, he knew not), but she answered politely enough, “I am sorry to have missed you, Mr. Knightley. I first called upon the parsonage and then brought some knitting from my grandmother to Mrs. Weston.”

 

He nodded, unsure now faced with the prospect of actually asking for the honor of her hand. He opened his mouth and shut it again, unable to speak. His mouth was dry and he tried to swallow.

 

Stepping closer, Jane Fairfax asked, concern evident, “Are you unwell, sir?”

 

He held up a hand, stopping her, and tried to clear his throat, “I am well.” He tried to remember why he had set down this path in the first place. He knew he offered her no more affection than the rest of Highbury, perhaps even less. What he did offer was comfort and security, and what was more, a position of some importance about the village. He knew she would, if she agreed, be marrying him for pecuniary reasons. He took her for hardly any better: he wished a pretty companion on his arm to shore up his defenses against the coming onslaught. They would use one another kindly; it need not be an unfavorable usage. Taking a deep breath, he removed his hat, “Miss Fairfax, I did not call to speak to the Bates. I came to call upon you.”

 

She blinked, his words taking her by surprise, “What need have you to call upon me?”

 

He stepped closer to her then, but only because he thought that was what a man was supposed to do when proposing. He continued, “I came to make you an offer of marriage.” The words were plain and honest, the only offer he could give to her. “I have long suspected that you and Frank Churchill formed an attachment in Weymouth, which if I’m not mistaken, you have since dissolved.” She looked away from him then, unusual emotion darkening her expression. “I also think you have guessed something of my own hopes, now quite impossible. I never thought to marry, but the prospect of continuing as a bachelor seems untenable, and you need not leave Highbury. You need not become a governess,” he explained. “So, will you accept me?” he asked again, bluntly, nearly rudely.

 

Jane Fairfax tugged at the bow under her chin, holding her bonnet in place, breathing heavy, but in an instant—so fast that Mr. Knightley wondered if he only imagined her discomfort—he could not read her expression, “I am most honored, sir, but, may I—“ she stopped, looking anywhere but at his face, “May I have some time to consider?”

 

He nodded, “Of course.” He had not guess at what she would say, for all his own ponderings at his own course of action. He had not thought what her reply would look nor sound like (and certainly not expected anything other than a very usual “yes” or “no”).

 

She too nodded, made a quick curtsy and went to move past him, back to the Bates’ apartments, but as he watched her leave, her steps slowed, before she turned back to him. “Wait,” she called out, though he had not moved. Her face showed the fear that he had imagined himself: the fear of her circumstances, the fear of her future.

 

The fear of making her way alone in the world. “I will accept you.”

 

He frowned, but stepped closer. He knew, if she were to accept him, that she would do so for the protection and support he offered, but he did not wish her to do so out of absolute fear. Mr. Knightley put the hat back on his head, bidding her, “Take the night. Think on it. I will call upon you in the morning.”

 

Jane Fairfax nodded, made her curtsy again and left without further answer, and George Knightley walked home, wondering what exactly he had done. 

 

* * *

 

 

In the very late morning (or what rightfully should be called the early afternoon), Mr. Knightley braced himself to call upon Jane Fairfax and hear her answer. He skipped his lunch, his stomach ill since waking and not made better for a light breakfast, and walked first to check upon Hartfield, though he had checked upon it the day previous, and afterward call upon the Bates women. Naturally, there was nothing amiss at the Woodhouse’s estate (and the manager, he thought, was getting rather put out with his needless concern), and so it was that he found himself quickly calling upon Miss Fairfax, Miss Bates and Mrs. Bates—sooner than he felt ready. This time Jane was at home, awaiting his call.

 

“Why Mr. Knightley, we had not thought you should call again so soon. Do come in, do come in and sit,” Miss Bates welcomed him with her usual animation, offering her own chair for him. “We have had many, many visitors, have we not, Jane, this morning? First, Mrs. Cole, rather early, who ever so kindly brought with her an excellent bird that she left with our Patty, and then Mrs. Stokes called with a bit of news that more than the usual guests have taken up at the Crown this week, and Mrs. Wallis too, came in with the end of the baked apples, as she is always so, so kind to do—but of course, you are too thank for those as well, and we do hope that Mrs. Hodges has forgiven the gesture,” Miss Bates continued in this manner for sometime, with Mr. Knightley free to look about the room without failing to give her ample reply. He found Jane not sitting at the pianoforte, as he usually found her upon previous visits, but by the window with a bit of embroidery upon her lap. She would not look at him.

 

That did not bode well.

 

“Jane, you know, has positively jumped up at each of our morning visits, haven’t you Jane?” He looked up, a little startled, at hearing the girl’s name from her aunt, “we nearly thought her expecting a visitor, but then with Miss Woodhouse gone, you know, there could not be anyone, as Jane usually goes to call on Mrs. Elton at the vicarage herself. We are to dine there you know, later in the week, after we have dined with you—you were so kind as to extend the invitation yesterday.”

 

Looking back to the window, he noted that she looked rather uncomfortable, a light blush on her pale cheeks. He had kept her waiting, it would seem. As Hetty Bates continued, he wracked his mind to contrive a reason for them to walk about, but since beginning this whole business, he had been stricken rather dumb and dull. He was usually far smoother in situations such as these. However, Jane saved them both, “Aunt, I had hoped to take a letter to the post office, but did not take the time this morning, with our visitors—“

 

“Oh, but Jane, you cannot go while we still have our dear guest, after Mr. Knightley was so kind as to send the very last of his favorite apples—“

 

“Miss Bates, I actually hoped to walk in the direction of the post myself.” He turned to Jane, offering, “I could walk with you there?”

 

She nodded once, offering a small smile, “Of course.” She quickly put away her needlework and gathered up a letter, as Miss Bates thanked him for the call and reminded him how much they would look forward to dining at Donwell later in the week. What little reply she needed, he made before both he and Miss Fairfax were in the stairwell. He did not speak right away, but at the bottom of the staircase, stepping outside, he whispered, “I thank you. I was not sure how best to—“

 

Before he could finish and prompt her for her answer, Jane asked, low and fast, “I must ask as to what you would think best for…” she sighed, and he could see the question in her face—a matter that she was at great pains to discuss.

 

He could guess as to its nature, “Your aunt and grandmother?”

 

“Yes,” she nodded. “What should be their situation, if I were to accept you?” She spoke in low tones and it was hard to hear her in the bustle of Highbury. “I should have asked yesterday, but you surprised me, sir.”

 

He cringed. If she accepted, he would need to put a stop to her calling him “sir” at every turn. Clearing his throat, he told her what he had thought over as to the best possible solutions, “There are options, Miss Fairfax. We could have them at Donwell Abbey, there are certainly more than enough rooms, but I wonder that they may wish to minimize any change to their lifestyle.” He looked over at her, hoping that she did not think him slighting her family for the suggestion, “They have lived for ten years in the village and may desire their situation to not remove them too far from the village. They could very easily be installed in a cottage in town. There is one already empty and part of the Donwell estate, and I believe they may prefer to be near their friends—the little cottage just behind Ford’s,” he pointed out the Oak Lane Cottage, long since abandoned since before his purchase of it. “Of course, we should increase their income, something comparable to what they enjoyed at the vicarage, if your aunt has spoken of the numbers from that time, but, Elton has been open enough to speak on specific amounts. His wife too, has spoken of it, I imagine,” he admitted without intending to do so.

 

She laughed a little at the mention of the Eltons’ forthcoming nature as to financial situation, “Indeed she has, Mr. Knightley.”

 

“Are there other concerns?” he ventured to ask. Pausing, he added, “I am aware that this is not the match either one of us had imagined for ourselves.” He chanced a look at her and she colored at the admission. “You must have other concerns—over settlement, perhaps?” The material most certainly had to be of concern in a family where even the three shillings for a new pair of spectacles was strongly resisted. “Did you speak of it with,” he paused, lowering his voice further, “with Mr. Churchill?”

 

“No,” the reply hardly audible, and Mr. Knightley was not sure if it was from the mortification of being asked, or the answer itself giving her discomfort. “No, sir, specific numbers had not been discussed, as we had thought his aunt would be some time an obstacle.”

 

So they indeed did have a solid engagement. He had never been entirely sure, but her answer sealed it. In a burst of disgust and loose lips, he scoffed, “Of course not.” Of course Frank Churchill had not been open with a young woman as to how he intended to provide for her care—it was not done and reflected, in Kightley’s opinion, another mark against his character—but noting her harsh expression, he changed direction, “I will be honest: Donwell Abbey is a great estate, but I have invested much of my ready capital, and it will take some years to change that or gain returns. With the care for your family, pin money may not be—“

 

She held up a hand, stopping him, “Please, Mr. Knightley, I do not care about that. I never much have, and can hardly believe—“ she cut off, a hand to her face, “What must you think of me, to say such a thing, when I, myself—“

 

He knew what she meant to say and could not bring herself to speak aloud: when she was only considering marrying him on the basis of situation, of course he would imagine her to care for pin money. He turned toward her, “Do not make yourself uneasy. We understand one another, and to my mind, that is all that matters.” She nodded, but looked ill convinced—and if he were being truthful, looked truly ill altogether.

 

He considered, but briefly, speaking on the matter of children (and little Henry flitted through his mind), but shook off the thought. It would be ridiculous and forward to speak on such matters should she reject his suit. Instead, he asked, “So, what say you, Miss Fairfax? Will you accept?” the boldness to his words did not shock—it was his way—but he wished he had tempered the words. However it was too late, he had already said them.

 

Jane Fairfax stopped her steps and looked at him fully, her expression dire and for a moment, he very much believed that she would not bring herself to have him, but then she replied simply, “Yes, Mr. Knightley, I will marry you.”

 

He nodded, and without quite realizing, he smiled, “Good. Thank you.” It was in his mind, the stupidest thing he had ever said aloud.

 

She answered in kind, “You are welcome, but it is you I should be thanking.” The awkward nature of the exchange hit them both, and without quite knowing what to do, they continued their walk to the post office. They posted her letter, and he withheld the desire to pay for it on her behalf. They turned back to the Bates’ apartments, when Jane spoke up again, “We should not want the banns to be read, do not you think?” The question was posed in that timid manner of hers: putting forth her own thoughts and desires as questions or suggestions.

 

That would need to stop too. However, her point was fair. “No, we should not,” he replied, thinking of the gasps—and worse—the letters that would fly forth, drafted Sunday after church and arrived by Wednesday onward. “We most certainly should not, and a few shillings for a license is certainly well worth the discretion.” He sighed, beginning to think through the logistics of the matter, “I believe you wish to be married from Highbury church?”

 

She nodded, “Yes, my grandfather’s place, but you perhaps wish Donwell church?”

 

He shook his head, “You grandfather presided here for decades, and I do not think your grandmother and aunt would very much appreciate us having it in Donwell parish.” He sighed, “It will not do to ask Elton for the license.”

 

“No, neither can be trusted with discretion,” she agreed, referring to Mrs. Elton.

 

“To be fair, the husband’s no better than his wife in that regard.”

 

She chuckled at the frank statement. Clearing her throat, she asked, “Will you go to the Donwell vicar?”

 

“No, while a good man and not one to take offense to a second Knightley wedding to be held in Highbury, I think it would cause undue ire to Elton should I not go to him for the whole lot.” The vain parson was surely to be offended, should he split the matter between the two parishes. No, it would be far better for Mr. Knightley to simply go above him and ride to the nearest bishop for the license. “If you are not opposed, I shall request a license from the Bishop of Winchester.”

 

“So far?” she asked.

 

“It is a quick ride, his resides in London this time of year, and well worth it to avoid causing undue offense.” They had arrived at the apartments. “I shall send notice of my visit directly, unless you wish to wait?”

 

She frowned and began, “I—“ Jane Fairfax stopped, and pulling herself to her full height, amended in a stronger tone, “I cannot wait. You know my situation. If we are to do this, then let us do so.”

 

“As you wish.” Gesturing to the apartments, he bade, “Let us go inform Mrs. and Miss Bates.”

 

After a few steps, Jane Fairfax caught his arm in the stairwell, “My aunt knew of my past engagement.” The words were blurted out, quickly, “You need not worry that you go to much trouble for discretion for no purpose.”

 

He blinked at her—truly, that had been of concern. Miss Bates was not one known for her discretion, but if she had known of the engagement, her silence was built of stronger stuff. He felt he needed to speak further however, “Even were it not so, I would not be angry.” He shrugged, at a loss for what to say, “With either of you.” In that moment, he worried that Jane Fairfax feared him—a thought that before that very instant had never occurred to him as a possibility. That would not do. He opened his mouth to speak further, but Miss Bates poked her head out into the stairwell, “Oh, Jane, Mr. Knightley, I thought I saw you both come in, but when you did not appear, we became concerned.” She continued in a like manner as the couple ascended the staircase.

 

The ladies were astonished—though the couple did not need permission from the Bates women, as Jane had reached her twenty first birthday some months earlier upon her early days returned to Highbury. Explaining their plans, Miss Bates too, agreed that they did not wish to be the gossip of the parish—much to Mr. Knightley’s surprise—and offered coin for the license, but he declined the offer over a few tears for his kindness.

 

Jane said that she would write to the Campbells directly to hasten their return, for she wished them to be present when they wed. As Jane repeated their words to her grandmother, whose hearing was quite poor, Mr. Knightley tried to discretely mention to Miss Bates that he too would write to Colonel Campbell, as to the matter of Jane’s trousseau.

 

Miss Bates colored, but nodded. For a moment, he thought she might cry in earnest, but instead, she patted his hand, “You are too good to care for our dear Jane.” He felt guilt that the woman did not understand that no, he was using their niece for his own comfort He made to leave soon after that. Stepping out into the late afternoon and despite his forthright speech earlier, Mr. Knightley realized that he had not a single notion as to the proper amount for the wedding clothes, settlement, or pin money, for he could not recall what John had settled on Isabella.

 

He did remember thinking it too high, however, for Isabella’s spending habits. She, unlike her sister, had not been made full mistress of Hartfield before her marriage to his brother. Only Emma had ever held that title, and her sister had suffered for it. She spent too liberally, to Mr. George Knightley’s mind.

 

Walking back to Donwell Abbey, he briefly wondered if he would need to ask John for assistance beyond simply advising as to the settlement. It would take some significant money to care for the Bates women and purchase what Jane needed to enter into the married state. Mr. Knightley would be shame-faced to ask, but his brother would most certainly not deny him. After all, the elder had spent significant sums—a few thousand pounds—setting his brother up in his practice of the law, and the barrister always had more ready cash than the master of Donwell. John too, did well at the law and earned good money—not that it was not needed, with five young children and a pretty wife.

 

George Knightley took his supper in his study, immediately writing first to the bishop, to expect him tomorrow, and second, to Colonel Campbell (having the directions from Jane as to where they planned to stay during their return trip from Ireland), as to the issue of her wedding clothes. It would be unseemly for him to pay for the trousseau, but in this particular situation, he thought it incredibly unreasonable to think that the Campbells would provide for it.

 

It went without saying that the Bates would most certainly not be providing it.

 

The letter introduced himself, spoke in brief as to Jane’s excellent qualities, thanked the Colonel once again for the education and care he had provided, and finally, told him the cost would be covered as to Jane’s trousseau, indelicate as the case may be.

 

He waited however, to write to his brother. He needed to wait, at least a day, to let his own mind settle. He would have to write. Not only did he need to have John stand up with him the day of the wedding, but his brother was the only one he trusted to look over the final settlement papers. He would need to write soon, however, because he still had not the faintest notion of what the amounts should even approximate.

 

Pouring himself a little bit of brandy—a rarity for Mr. Knightley—he went to bed early, but woke throughout the night.

 

* * *

 

The morning ride to London, despite his poor sleep, returned Mr. Knightely to feeling more akin to his usual person. The wind felt pleasant, and the clouds prevented the sun from beating down too hard upon his back. The road too, was good and the countryside pretty enough for distraction from the sworn statements in his saddlebag and the ten shillings in his pocket.

 

The haste would be remarked upon, but it was unavoidable. Mr. Knightley knew—they both knew—it would be so, but Jane’s financial situation was tenuous and there was too little time before the return of the Woodhouse and Fitzwilliam families to delay. He did not wish to linger over their engagement. He did not wish to hear the gossips (and perhaps now, he rather understood Emma’s calling them _tiresome wretches_ ). He wanted to do it and be done with the matter.

 

He grimaced: his was not a romantic notion.

 

That too, would surely be cause for comment, and what was worse: comment from the Bishop of Winchester more than most. He knew the Honorable Brownlow North well enough from their handful of dealings due to Knightley’s position as magistrate for the area, but he wondered what the older man would say to first, the note, and then, the ride over for the license; sixteen miles was no small distance to travel in so short a time. The man was not eccentric, but certainly was of an open temperament. He would have much to say over this harried engagement.

 

The Hon. North had a pleasant living, at £5,000 pounds, and despite a prolonged illness, which ended much of his travel, generally performed his role with great affability for a man well connected in the best circles, both religious and political. The London seat, Winchester House at Chelsea place was well-maintained, despite North’s increased frailty. His country home was of comparable likeness to Donwell’s size and prospects (it could be more like, it _should_ be more like, but George could not eat his cake and have his cake, as it were—he could not invest his interest and spend his interest all at the same time). Overall, Knightley was satisfied with the bishop and their dealings, even with North’s oddities.

 

Upon arrival to London’s outer edge and the grand house, Mr. Knightley dismounted and gave his horse to the stable hand, allowing the footman to lead him to the bishop’s study. He dreaded the coming conversation with every footfall (and briefly wondered, on the final step, the sound of the footman knocking on the door to announce him, if he would feel the same when he walked down the church aisle), “My lord, how do you do?”

 

Rising to greet him, North was pleasant enough, “Oh, worse as ever—Knightley, isn’t it?” He gave his own bow, and they shook hands. “Now, my nephew always spoke highly of you,” the bishop told him, pouring them both a goodly amount of brandy from the nearby decanter, “but this business does make you look the lovesick puppy, boy.”

 

He smiled, but it was stretched taught. Knightley too, thought relatively well of North’s nephew, the newly made Earl of Guilford, a school-hood acquaintance. They had not been quite friends, but nearly so, and it was an acquaintance which North mentioned each time they met. Their greeting was always the same: _Knightley, isn’t it_ , followed by the remembrance from Guildford. The tedium he had always taken in stride, but today, he must withhold a sigh of annoyance. Returning to business, he said, “Highbury is quite small, sir, and I have never much liked being the subject of gossip.”

 

“License might cause more than it skirts,” the bishop raised an eyebrow at that, tipping his brandy glass to Knightley. “You young people get the strangest notions into your heads. Always darting off on some new scheme.”

 

The master of Donwell wondered what young person had vexed the bishop (and rather wondered if it had not been Guilford). “Sir, neither myself, nor your nephew, I dare say, have the right to call ourselves young men.”

 

“Fie, you both are young yet, and what’s more, full of health and vigor. What is your age,” the bishop appraised the gentleman before him, “five and thirty, I’d wager?”

 

“I am eight and thirty, sir.” He smiled, pushing down the little pleasure at the guess.

 

North shrugged, finishing his drink and pouring himself a second, “Well, young enough for this to be your first marriage.” Making his way back around the desk, he held up a slip of paper—Knightley’s note, “As you say.” Setting down the glass, the bishop read over the missive again, “Now what is all this about? Does she have some great fortune and you are stealing her away from a disagreeable family? Some terrible uncle perhaps?” The man chuckled to himself, spinning his gothic tale—Guilford had always had a flair for the dramatic, apparently gotten from North.

 

Such imaginings could not be farther from the truth of the matter. “Hardly, she’s not a guinea to her name,” after but a moment, he added, “but she is a pretty face.”

 

Slipping on a pair of spectacles, the bishop pulled a slip of paper from a desk drawer and began to scribble upon it, “Is she of age?” he asked, peering at Knightley from over the top of his glasses.

 

The master of Donwell pulled the sworn statements from his pocket, passing them to the bishop, “Of course.”

 

“No impediments?” When Knightley shook his head, North asked, “Then what is all this about?”

 

He lied then, because he imagined that he could not get what he wanted, when he wanted it, any other way—and after all, North liked the dramatic—making as romantic a pronouncement as he could muster, “We wish to be married quickly, my lord.”

 

Reading over them, the older man nearly laughed, “You really are a lovesick puppy.” Shaking his head, he tossed the spectacles onto the desk, “Come, you must eat supper with the family. Stay too, if you like—we shall see to your license in the morning, eh?”

 

With little choice but to accept, Mr. Knightley did. What was more, Winchester House was near enough that he could ride into London proper in the morning.

 

* * *

 

 

Ultimately, he stayed two days with the bishop. For quite some time, he considered stopping to see his brother and Isabella after departing the bishop with the license. He also considered it again after making the purchase of his wedding gift, but ultimately, decided against the venture. It was not that he did not wish to see them, to draw strength from the warm regularity of their loud household, with its daily, domestic squabbles, but that he knew not the types of reply he should make to their probing questions. It would be better to send word once he returned to Donwell, closer to the date of the wedding. Let them make of it what they would (and they needed never to know he was in town for such short duration). He rode back to Highbury, in no particular hurry, the license and a hefty receipt in his pocket. He just might need to borrow from John after all, before this business was said and done.

 

Choices would have to be made. Between arrangements for the Bates women and the wedding clothes and breakfast, Knightley would need to spare concern for the state of the carriage and the house. He assumed that Jane Fairfax was likely to want to make some changes to the mistress’ rooms, if not also others (was not that the prerogative of brides? He knew not).

 

His mind paused at the thought; he had not entered his mother’s rooms in a year at least, if not more. It would be strange having them occupied, and he felt the same unsettling feeling he had experienced when he had finally assumed his own father’s set of rooms.

 

It was rather late when he arrived home, but after washing the dust from the road from himself, he laid down in bed to go over what little business he had missed. He wrote instructions to begin the improvements to Oak Lane Cottage and planned to call the carriage for inspection tomorrow. He would also need to speak with William Larkins and Mrs. Hodges in the near future—all the staff eventually, but those two deserved ample notice and a little explanation. William Larkins’ response was easy enough to predict: he would overjoyed. The steward had long pestered his master to take a wife, and there were few who lamented more over the pitiable situation of the Bates and Miss Fairfax than his goodly Mr. William Larkins.

 

His housekeeper on the other hand, he dared not imagine what she would say.

 

Mrs. Hodges was not a woman given to positivity, even at the best of times, and many questioned Mr. Knightley’s decision to keep her on after his parents’ deaths. However, she had done much of the day-to-day raising of the Knightley boys, alongside their nannies. His strict attitudes and inclinations were much the result of her firm guidance (though perhaps the responsibility for John’s dour attitude also laid at her feet). She had never spoken as to wives, with a single exception: when he had finally accepted his father’s bedchamber, she had shown him the rooms and the adjoining door to the mistress’ chambers. She had told him: “Do not ever find yourself across from a silly wife. The door opens both ways.”

 

He had blushed beet red and made her no answer, but the words had always stayed with him. Most certainly, Jane Fairfax would not make a silly wife. He worried that rather, she would make a timid wife, with Mrs. Hodges running roughshod over her. It would probably be trial by fire with his housekeeper, and perhaps, Knightley thought to himself, he should have a word to her that Jane Fairfax was to be treated with more gentility than that which Mrs. Hodges usually administered.

 

Her final words too, he had considered not infrequently throughout the years. _The door opens both ways_ , she had said, and while Mrs. Hodges almost always spoke plain, it took some time to riddle out her meaning. Mr. Knightley imagined the older woman had meant that wives influenced husbands as much as husbands influenced wives—or perhaps more accurately, if he knew his housekeeper, she meant that a silly wife would make the master equally so, in time. However, that would never be the case for himself and Jane Fairfax, but as to what their lot did entail, he could not guess.

 

No, not Jane Fairfax— she was to be Mrs. George Knightley, he thought, looking at the unobtrusive doorway. He rubbed at his tired eyes; Mrs. Hodges would have to just get used to the change.

 

He would just have to get used to the change.


	4. Chapter 3

Surprisingly, Colonel Campbell’s replies arrived earlier than both Mr. Knightley or Miss Fairfax had expected. Opening his own letter, in Donwell Abbey, he rather felt upon his first cursory reading that the retired military man was withholding judgment until he could take stock of Knightley in person.

 

The Campbells were amid their return to London from Ireland and would hasten their travels so as to arrive in time for the impending ceremony. They would not even stop at their own home in town, but instead travel directly to Highbury. Knightley imagined that Jane must have spoken of the haste to their plans, for the colonel to offer unprompted explanation of the planned route.

 

The letter itself was brief. Outside of the required felicitations, the colonel suggested that they share the cost of Jane’s trousseau. It was a generous and gentlemanly offer, and Mr. Knightley was thankful for it. He also wrote that he had sent the required funds to Jane herself. Mr. Knightley could give his own contribution to Miss Bates that evening when he hosted the women to dinner. The ladies would need to make the required purchases at Ford’s rather quickly—it was the only place that could complete the orders in time. He hoped the shopping at least, would bring her some much-needed enjoyment.

 

He had also received a letter from his brother. It spoke of common trivialities and the elder brother was comforted that his quick visit to town had gone unnoticed by his family. John had written as to his upcoming cases, the boys’ latest antics and baby Emma’s frequent hiccups. It was all very regular and set Mr. Knightley in a strange mood. He had begun to spend more time in London at Brunswick Square. He had never much cared for London in his youth, but in his middle age, he rather liked the bustle. However, he loved the time with family most of all.

 

He made two more attempts at writing to John about the engagement but gave up, folding them and putting them into his pocket. He would go down to the kitchens to check on dinner preparations with Mrs. Hodges and slip them into the fire there. It was ill-advised to check on the meal, but he still felt the urge. He was beginning to think Mrs. Hodges suspicious of his increased interest in household matters of late. After viewing the carriage, he had found it in good shape, if a little worn and ultimately decided a fresh coat of paint would do well-enough. He had also ordered the household accounts and their duplicates to be brought to his study for review. He had found everything to be quite regular, but Mrs. Hodges had given him a very pointed look when she brought them upstairs.

 

The final stroke was when he had requested an airing of the spare bedrooms (though not the mistress’ apartments). Quite sly, the housekeeper had asked, “When should we expect Mr. John and Mrs. Knightley?” She always called his brother ‘Mr. John’ and himself Mr. Knightley since their twenty-first birthdays, and the simplicity to the words had nearly caught him off-guard.

 

He had opened his mouth and shut it again, before deciding upon answering her in the simplest of manners, “The rooms aren’t for my brother or the children.”

 

Her eyes had narrowed, but she remained silent, staring at him—he could _feel_ her staring. Looking up, he had asked, “Is there anything else?”

 

Raising her eyebrows, she had replied more than a little sarcastic, “No, Mr. Knightley.”

 

He would need to tell her of the engagement, and soon. Larkins too, but the instant he told them, it would be all about the town, and before that he had more letters to write.

 

* * *

 

Pushing down the inclination to send the carriage to collect them, Mr. Knightley awaited his guests in an old sitting room, which he had not used in many years. In fact, he had never used it at all.

 

The room had belonged to his mother. She had used it as a morning sitting room, though she had not been particularly fond of mornings, and it housed her instrument, her harpsichord—though she had not been particularly musical. She had played and played well to Knightley’s memory, but she had certainly been wanting in dedication. To his recollection, there were few instances where she had been sitting still (either of his parents, really). They had always been in motion or in preparation or return from constant activity, but of the handful of memories of his mother in a stationary position, it had been in this room, playing the harpsichord.

 

On a lark, he had wondered if he could tune it well enough to be played, but fifteen years had done their work and the piece was far beyond his limited abilities. If he wanted it tuned he would need to hire someone. Sitting in the morning room, the light quite poor, he wondered if it was worth the fuss.

 

They certainly would have no music tonight—Ms. Fairfax probably didn’t even care for the harpsichord sound, antiquated and out of fashion as it was. Yet, the son could not imagine parting with his mother’s instrument. He was musing where to put the old monstrosity, if he was going to keep it merely for the sake of sentiment when Harry, one of the younger footmen, announced that his guests had arrived, “Shall I bring them here, sir?”

 

“No, no, I will go down to greet them.” He stood, more than a little embarrassed at his footman finding him alone in a dark room, looking very much the simpleton.

 

Their greeting was everything that was normal and pleasing, and he escorted Mrs. Bates into the dining room, with Miss Bates and Jane following just behind them. He had sent off a quick note, under pretense as a reminder of the meal, but really as a missive to them all that he had yet to tell the household of the engagement. He felt the awkwardness of Miss Fairfax trailing back with her aunt, but it could not be helped. Escorting her into dinner, her grandmother giving way, it would be most unseemly without a formal attachment.

 

The preparation had given him occasion to think back to all the times that the Bates women had been to Donwell Abbey, and it occurred to him that the three had never been to Donwell alone. It had only ever been among larger groups, friends from Randalls and Hartfield, or among a dinner party with the Coles. To that end, he wished the meal to be very good, and until such a time as he was able to increase their income, he wished to provide them what he could. He had always worried over the old woman and her spinster daughter, sending them gifts of meat or produce from his orchards, but there were limits to what he could do and what they would accept.

 

They were proud women, the mother and daughter, and had worked hard to devolve gracefully. Miss Bates’ nature was most certainly too much toward openness and Mrs. Bates in her later years too much toward silence, but Mr. Knightley knew far worse people in far better situations. He dared to say he even liked them. He always had, and if nothing else, it pleased him to think that he would be the means to improving their situation.

 

Taking their seats, they began the meal of artichoke soup, mashed turnips, rabbit with garlic and onion, asparagus, gooseberry pudding and stewed pears. He did not extend the courses, as it was not a true dinner party. Rather, it was a very fine, family dinner—the thought gave him pause, and picking up his soupspoon, he realized that beyond style, such was soon to be the majority of all his family dinners. Without fully intending to do so, he caught Jane’s eyes where she sat farthest from the head of the table, next to her grandmother. She held his stare for a few moments before a slight blush colored her cheeks and she looked to the soup. Shaken from his thoughts, Mr. Knightley realized that the older women were waiting for him to begin the meal. He obliged them and the odd and quiet moment passed away to Miss Bates’ chatter.

 

* * *

 

After dinner, they retire to his favorite drawing room. The room had been neglected in recent years, for he spent most evenings at Hartfield, but since his argument over Emma’s meddling between Harriet Smith and Robert Martin—and since the arrival of Frank Churchill—he had increasingly returned to the room to while away his nights.

 

At dinner they had not been able to discuss their plans, and true to Miss Fairfax’s word, her aunt did not reveal them in the slightest (despite many knowing glances being given). After dismissing the servants, alone with only the quiet roar of the fire and the clinking of their teacups, they were finally able to speak of the engagement. With the exception of Miss Bates’ comments on the lovely room, the delicious meal, the excellent candles and warming tea, the women waited for his cue, and drawing his chair closer, enclosing their small circle, he set down his saucer and asked in a low voice, “Have you given any thought to a day?”

 

The aunt and grandmother looked to Jane, and she took her time in answering, “This week would be too soon, I think.”

 

Mr. Knightley did not like her reticence and feeling only a touch of guilt, sincerely hoped to cure her of it, “Indeed, the Campbells would most certainly not arrive by then, but two Saturdays, I believe would be enough time.”

 

She nodded, thinking over the proposal, “They could join us a few days before if we set upon the day.”

 

He looked at her then, working to measure her agreement, to verify it, but her countenance was hard to read. He looked to the aunt and grandmother, “Would that do?”

 

Their agreement was quickly established, all the more overflowing for Jane’s reserve. The other details followed quickly. It would be a small wedding party and breakfast, with Donwell Abbey offered for the breakfast and for the Campbells’ lodging rather than the Crown Inn. Mr. Knightley believed that John, Isabella and the older children would hurry from London—if his brother’s letter was anything by which to judge, skipping town for two days would be no great trouble. The majority of the details dispensed with, Mr. Knightley suggested they play backgammon, knowing how Mrs. Bates enjoyed the game. They played a few times before the older woman, closest to the fire, began to tire and nodded off, at which point, Miss Bates asked quietly, “Mr. Knightley, you and Jane might play, if I could trouble you for your newspaper?”

 

He frowned, “Forgive me, I should have sent it over with the note, but had not quite finished with it.” He hurried to his study, but when he returned he found that Miss Bates had moved further from the game, and with Mrs. Bates sleeping, he and Jane had the semblance of privacy. Knightley was surprised at the aunt’s coyness, for he had never thought her at all given to be sly or discreet before this business. Handing over the paper and taking his seat across from Miss Fairfax, they began their game.

 

At first, he was admittedly distracted in evaluating her at such close proximity. She was truly a very pretty girl. Her teeth were straight and white, even against her skin, which still looked a little sallow, even after the adventure to Box Hill. Her light eyes and dark hair gave her a memorable look, and either the Mrs. Campbell or she herself had chosen her gowns to draw attention to the contrast, always in those blues, grays and greens. She would make, if nothing else, a lovely picture as the mistress of Donwell Abbey.

 

Jane startled him from the appraisal however, when she ventured, “I should like to have Mrs. Elton serve as witness.”

 

Clearing his throat, he asked, “Pardon?” She repeated herself, in that quiet tone of hers, and tilting his head he answered, “As you wish.”

 

His voice must have revealed his surprise at the request, because she added, “Mrs. Elton had been kind to me, despite,” she paused searching for her words, and finally settled upon, “her ways.”

 

That was one manner of putting it, Mr. Knightley thought, but then he had meant what he had told Emma and Mrs. Weston a few weeks back: Jane had no other friends in Highbury. It should be no great shock that she would grow close to someone, even someone as ill-suited as Augusta Elton, “One more, as your friend, would make no great difference.”

 

She smiled at him then, “Thank you.”

 

He smiled back and made his next play, “Besides, we would want a full report to make it to Maple Grove rather than hearsay.”

 

Jane let out a true laugh, but quieted when her grandmother startled (before returning to her snoring), “Quite.”

 

The game progressed in silent amicability, the gentleman thinking over plans, not paying particular attention, but noting his lead, he endeavored to try a little less well. Strange that, he had never been one to do so before—he had _never_ let little Emma beat him at games or cards, for everyone else in her life gave way to her. He had been determined that he should not do likewise, but in this instance, with this woman who had so little, he felt a twinge of pity, particularly as she had quietly enjoyed winning earlier in the evening.

 

She was quite close when she made a very poor decision.

 

He frowned, it was such that to not take advantage would be quite a fool’s decision indeed, but he did so.

 

Two more moves progressed in this way, before Jane Fairfax gave him the archest of looks he had ever seen her express. “Don’t let me win,” she said.

 

He blinked at her—so she had noticed. “Forgive me, I—“ he cut off, unsure how to explain his feelings, instead Knightley repeated, “Forgive me.”

 

She nodded once and returned to the game.

 

He beat her, but only just. Afterward, he called for the carriage to return the ladies to Highbury, the evening grown late.

 

* * *

 

Having set upon a date, they decided to wait a few more days to announce their plans. In this manner, he knew the forthcoming Fitzwilliams would be prevented from returning to Highbury in time to attend—likely the letters would only arrive a few days prior to the wedding, perhaps even on the day.

 

The Campbells had sent word that they would join them on Wednesday, and Mr. Knightley had directed them to drive to Donwell, where he had also offered for Jane Fairfax and the Bates women to be among the party to greet them and stay for dinner. It was perhaps excessive to formally invite them, and he expected them to share the dinners at Donwell Abbey for the rest of the week, particularly after the news of their engagement became public. The only pity would be the absence of the Dixons, but it could not be helped. Mrs. Margaret Dixon had written to wish them joy and that she and Mr. Dixon would whole heartedly welcome a visit from the couple soon—even as a wedding trip perhaps—to their estate in Ireland.

 

Now, with their plans nearly complete, all that was left was to break the news among their acquaintance. Mr. Knightley prevaricated over the matter of telling the Eltons or his staff first, unsure who would spread it about the village sooner, but at last, he knew that failing to tell Mrs. Hodges and Mr. Larkins would be seen as a mark of disrespect for not only their household positions, but to his years of friendship to them both. He called them to his study Saturday morning. They wore expressions of suspicion and curiosity, and dreading their reaction, he walked out from behind his desk to stand before them, hands clasped at his back (willing himself resolve, he worried he did not have), “As you may have noted, I have undertaken a review of the household, and perhaps wondered why.” Their faces confirmed this. “I have taken such steps, because I have offered a proposal of marriage to Miss Jane Fairfax and she has accepted.”

 

There was little shock in their faces, and Williams Larkins smirked at the more reserved Mrs. Hodges (wearing her usual scowl), “Wishing you much joy, sir.” The steward stepped forward and gave Mr. Knightley a hearty handshake, “I think it a fine thing, sir, a fine thing.”

 

Knightley smiled but wondered how fine a thing it would be. He continued, “Thank you, Larkins, but there is much still to be done, because of Miss Fairfax’s situation,” he did not need to explain the economies to the highest members of his household, “we have set upon this Saturday as the date, and we shall be having the wedding breakfast, naturally, at Donwell Abbey.” At that Mrs. Hodges’ eyes widened. Pulling out a small slip of paper and pencil from her morning apron, she jotted down a few notes. “In addition, Miss Fairfax’s former guardians, Mr. and Mrs. Campbell will be arriving for the wedding in two days time, and I have invited them to stay at Donwell.”

 

“And we’ll be expecting John and Mrs. Knightley, I expect?” Mrs. Hodges asked, only a little out of turn.

 

“Indeed, though I doubt they shall arrive before Friday.”

 

She nodded, “There is much to be done. When will you be wanting to speak to the staff?”

 

“This evening. Please, have them assembled before supper.”

 

“Yes, Mr. Knightley,” she tucked away her writing and added, “I’ll draw up the menus for you to approve by this evening as well.”

 

“Very good, thank you, Mrs. Hodges. I know I have now put a great deal on your shoulders, but I have no doubt that you shall amaze all our guests.”

 

She raised her eyebrows only lightly and made her perfunctory curtsey, “I wish you joy, Mr. Knightley.”

 

He nodded to her, “Thank you.” Knightley turned to Hodges, “Along with immediate arrangements, adjustments to financial matters will need to be considered—Larkins, I would like to discuss possible changes tomorrow morning, in particular Mrs. and Miss Bates will be moving into the Oak Lane Cottage and we will need to arrange for a change to their income. Consider our options. Thank you to you both, and until this evening, please maintain discretion among the staff.” He dismissed them before walking out to continue with the announcements.

 

He called first upon the Donwell vicar, Mr. Harlow, who was all easy friendliness and congratulations (too, Mr. Harlow was well aware of his fellow parson’s tendency toward thinking too highly of his own rights and understood the reason for Knightley’s going to London for the license), after which he walked over to tell Elton.

 

Mrs. Elton greeted him with her usual over-eagerness, “Why Mr. Knightley, we did not expect a call, but it has been too long.”

 

Giving her the expected bow, he asked, “Too long indeed. Is Mr. Elton at home? There is a matter on which I should like his opinion.” This pleased the lady and she directed him to the vicar’s study, announcing him with the embellishment: “Mr. Knightley has come to ask your advice.”

 

The master of Donwell withheld his expression of disdain, and after the usual pleasantries, he chose to make his announcement without delay, “Mr. Elton, I have need of your assistance.”

 

The younger man looked as well pleased as his wife, “Of course, I should be happy to do whatever is in my power to offer.”

 

Mr. Knightley suppressed his annoyance at the overinflated charm, “Excellent, I have asked Miss Fairfax for her hand in marriage and she has accepted. We have set upon next Saturday and would like very much if you would do the honor.”

 

Knightley was not disappointed with Mr. Elton’s reaction. The vicar’s jaw dropped. Mr. Knightley took advantage of this opportunity to further explain, “You must forgive us—the bishop of Winchester is a great friend and would have been very much offended if I went to anyone else, you understand.” He handed over the simple license; the lie would never reach farther than Mrs. Elton’s sister and Knightley doubted that should the bishop ever hear the exaggeration repeated back, the affable man would more likely agree than not. “Jane, naturally, very much wishes to be married from the church where her grandfather served for so many years. Are there any impediments to Saturday?”

 

The parson shook his head and finally, finding his words said, “No—no impediments in the least.”

 

“Excellent,” Knightley continued, “Miss Fairfax and I would also be most pleased if Mrs. Elton would join us on the day as one of our witness and if you both would return for the wedding breakfast.” The invitation, stroking Elton’s ego, was eagerly received. Times were set upon, but hearing voices in the parlor, Mr. Knightley suggested they join Mrs. Elton and share the news.

 

As he had expected, they found the vicar’s wife sitting with Miss Fairfax, already exclaiming over the news and her own invitation. Turning to the gentlemen, she exclaimed, “Knightley, you sly thing, you didn’t slip a word of it when you came in.”

 

Bowing to her and Jane he explained, “No, I left that to your friend.”

 

Congratulations were shared a few more times for good measure, before Mr. Knightley and Miss Fairfax took their leave. It came as little surprise that Mr. and Mrs. Elton should offer to walk back to Highbury with the couple, for the vicar and his wife wished to call upon their neighbors (and left it unsaid that they wished to be the first to share the news of the engagement among their company).

 

Beyond the household at Donwell and the Eltons, there were others left to tell. They had left the work of supplying the desired details to Miss Bates, for when word made it around the village, callers were sure to be nearly beating down her door.

 

Upon delivering Jane back to her aunt’s apartments, he asked if she wished to join him when he called upon Mrs. Weston, but—and he should have foreseen it—she vehemently declined. So it was that he made his solitary walk to break the news of the forthcoming marriage to the father and stepmother of Frank Churchill.

 

He found Mrs. Weston alone, as Mr. Weston had gone out for his walk. The former Anne Taylor looked well for a woman who would soon deliver her first child. She was rounder and fuller, but still a very pretty woman. Mr. Knightley had always admired the former governess for her kindness and forbearance, but he had also often wished her to be a little more discerning. Her love of young Emma had too often blinded her to the child’s faults, and now, her love of her husband’s son, Knightley believed, blinded her to his faults as well. Removing his hat and making his bow, they sat together in the parlor, and she called for tea. They spoke of little at first. She shared her latest letters (none from Frank) and asked after his brother and Isabella, but when silence settled upon them, Mrs. Weston set down her teacup and chanced, “You seem… unsettled, Mr. Knightley. Is something troubling you?”

 

He smiled at her. For all her sweetness and blindness to the faults of others, she had always been exceedingly perceptive, “I am unsettled.” He finished his tea and set down the china, unsure of how to proceed. They had always been rather forthcoming with one another—until Frank Churchill arrived—and now he felt unsure of how she would take the revelation. “I have something to tell you—“

 

At that moment, Mr. Weston burst into the room, “My dear, you will never guess what I have learned in the village! Mr. Knightley and—“ the older many cut off, seeing the man in question sitting beside his wife. “Why Mr. Knightley—“

 

“How do you do, Mr. Weston,” he turned to the wife, “Your husband has heard in the village is that I am to marry Miss Fairfax.”

 

Mrs. Weston let out a little gasp and smiled, “Oh, how wonderful!” Turning to her husband, she continued, “Isn’t it wonderful, my dear?”

 

Mr. Knightley stood to shake hands with Mr. Weston, who wished him joy (his earlier embarrassment quickly faded). Despite multiple attempts, the guest of Randalls was detained for many more congratulations, but when he finally extricated himself and walked home, he frowned. He had wished to know what words of comfort Mrs. Weston might have offered him. At Donwell, Mrs. Hodges had done her work and the servants were prepared to hear his announcement (though over half already knew what he meant to say), and by the end of the day, word had spread from Highbury and Donwell across the whole of the parishes and beyond, to Maple Grove in Bristol and London, and even the continent (and soon a handful of miles away to Epsom too).

 

In the end, Mr. Knightley did write a letter to Mr. and Miss Woodhouse, the future Mrs. Fitzwilliam. He burned many a practice letter and eventually settled upon little overture. He set the letter aside to be posted a few days later. He could guess as to when his letter would arrive for John and that should be when he posted his news to the Woodhouses.

 

His brother’s letter came easier. He simply wrote, “I’ve asked Miss Fairfax to do me the honor and she has accepted. We would have you, Isabella and the children join us Saturday hence, and I’ve enclosed the wedding settlement documents if you would be so kind as to look over them.” He posted the letter express to Brunswick Square.

 

* * *

 

The next day passed with little distinction, he endured a few stares during Harlow’s sermon and presumed Jane faced the same in the Highbury parish. He continued his preparations with Larkins and Mrs. Hodges, but while taking a simple meal in his study that evening, John burst through the door, nearly preempting his announcement. Despite his brother’s shock as the younger was shown into the study, George greeted him as was their practice, “How do you do, John?”

 

Mr. John Knightley replied in more forward a manner than was usual, “What have you done?” At George’s blinking expression, he added, “Isabella and the children will follow directly.”

 

That had not been what confused the master of Donwell and he nearly said as much, however, he settled upon the more agreeable response of: “Then I wonder at your riding out ahead of them.”

 

“You are one to talk. Fine thing for you to go all the way to London and not tell us in person.”

 

Mr. Knightley cringed, “How did you hear about that?”

 

“A clerk of Brownlow’s, saw him yesterday afternoon. You ride all the way to London for a license and give me hardly four lines,” He held up the offending letter the elder brother had posted. “I am much surprised at you. We all are. Have there been some liberties?”

 

George threw down his quill into the inkpot, “Lord, no. How should you even ask me that, John?”

 

The younger threw up his hands, “Well, what can I but think with the haste of it all?”

 

Knightley rolled his eyes, “Not that, surely, but I’ve always made my decisions and followed through straight away when I’ve been of a mind.”

 

“I can see that—this Saturday, really?” John shrugged, “Well, in any case, Emma and Mr. Woodhouse will be sad to miss it—you’ll get an earful, to be sure.”

 

George tensed again, his brother hitting on precisely the person he hoped him to avoid. “It cannot be helped. Jane’s position is precarious, and help cannot be offered without it appearing some liberty, as you say. We are set upon doing it with some speed. The Campbells will be here soon, and the time is well, the harvest not yet upon us. We think it as good a time as any.”

 

It was the first, Knightley realized, that he had spoken aloud of the them as a “we.”

 

The brother accepted his brother’s speech, taking it in stride. “As you like it—now, let us set this settlement to rights. Though, if she is anything like Isabella, she will always spend beyond it.”

 

* * *

 

Between the two brothers, both intelligent and well-versed in the economics of the day, they tackled the settlement and completed it before breaking their fast the next day. They sat down to eat with the intention to talk it over with the lady in question for approval or changes afterward, but the bride in question called upon Mr. Knightley and his brother with her aunt as early as was appropriate for callers.

 

“How fortunate, we would very much like your word on the settlement.” After looking over the papers, to which she had very little to say, outside of too much pin money and thanks for his generosity to her grandmother and aunt, they decided to take the air, as her countenance convinced Mr. Knightley that she had something to say.

 

With only a slightly pointed glance from his brother, John offered his arm with more gallantry than that to which he was prone, “Well then, shall we not take a turn, Miss Bates?” Mr. Knightley offered his own arm to Miss Fairfax and allowing some good distance between the two pairs, they began their walk through the rather limited gardens of Donwell. He waited for Jane to speak whatever it was that had her looking so distressed, Miss Bates’ chatter only a faint hum. He nearly wondered if she meant to break the engagement.

 

She finally broke the silence, “Sir—“

 

“No, it cannot be so,” he blurted out.

 

“Mr. Knightley?” She asked, unsure at his outburst.

 

“That is better.” Still the lady looked confused, so he explained, “My name. If we are to be wed, you must call me by my name, and my Christian name when we are alone.”

 

She colored at the request, taking but a moment (and he wondered if she even knew his name, but realized it to be a silly thought—everyone knew everyone from birth to grave in Highbury) before amending, “George.”

 

“Yes, Jane.”

 

“I would ask a request of you.”

 

Money, he should think, some wedding expense or trifling thing that cannot wait for after Saturday. It would be no matter to slip a little to her family and have it be missed by the crowing ladies of the town, “Of course, what need of me have you?”

 

She chanced him a quick glance before staring at the path, “It pains me to speak of it.” She breathed with some challenge, and he remembered, not warmly and a little annoyed, her tendency toward delicacy. She spoke of need but refused to confess the matter. Indeed, this stilted and challenged honesty was no way to begin together.

 

Shoring herself up, she opened her mouth, “I need to return the letters of Frank Churchill and request my own returned, but I would have you read, that is, look over, one. I should like a witness—I had never imagined him to be so uncharitable, but he—he did not answered my letter breaking out attachment, which I sent after Box Hill, and I worry that he shall not return my letters in retribution.”

 

Mr. Knightley was all astonishment. This task was not the one he had first imagined, perhaps payment for coal or cotton or carrots, rather than a matter of intrigue and the heart. Putting a hand to his chin, he pondered the matter, “Of course, I can read your letter, whichever you think best, but I do not think it wise that you should return all the letters before you have gained yours. Instead, perhaps, return one, request your own and keep the rest as collateral.”

 

“I had not imagined him to be of a vindictive nature, but I have been deceived in much to do with Mr. Churchill,” she nodded, “but I think you are right.” She stopped walking then and faced him, “Mine are not as unrestrained as his, but they would still bring scandal, should he dare make them public. I could not have us wed without you knowing. If you wish to dissolve the engagement, I release you from your promise. I understand that when you offered you did not know that I might draw shame upon you should Mr. Churchill choose to speak of our broken engagement.”

 

Mr. Knightley sighed and in that moment he was reminded that she was far younger than he—the youth and their follies. “I imagine your letters more modest than you own, but Jane, I long suspected the attachment, and it is no surprise that you exchanged letters. If he should choose to act dishonorably we shall weather it. You are perfectly within your right to cry off from him, and any other man, but I am not frightened away by a few love letters.” She did not look as if she much liked the answer, but at last nodded. “Would you let me read it and return it tomorrow?”

 

“Yes—George.”

 

* * *

 

Mr. Knightley read the letter after retiring for the night. He found it over-gilded, but it more than confirmed their engagement and love affair. Frank Churchill wrote at length of future desires—and not charitably of his aunt’s current decline.

 

It was an impulsive letter (though the hand very fine, as Mrs. Weston had always declared), and Knightley wondered how so demure and reserved a woman as Jane Fairfax could have appealed to the reckless heir to Enscombe. Perhaps her own letters revealed more openness than her usual demeanor—or more likely, Mr. Churchill made love to women all over England with little care for their feelings or circumstance.

 

Knightley pushed down the desire to burn the letter, for such prose, indeed, one would desire returned (at least he would certainly not want such a letter floating about had he written it). He was right as well that Jane should keep the majority, perhaps even the most implicating of the letters for her protection. He would advise her as such.

 

The next morning he walked to Highbury, finding her wearing such a face as if she expected him to break the engagement, despite their talk yesterday. After the usual pleasantries, he suggested they walk over to inspect the Oak Lane Cottage, and during her aunt’s inspection, he slipped her the letter, “Yours, Miss Fairfax.”

 

After enduring the overflowing praise of both ladies and extracting a few gently suggested changes, they walked to the post office where she posted her letter, with Frank’s enclosed. He paid, slipping the coinage to Miss Bates discretely (and so the concern had a monetary aspect after all).


	5. Chapter 4

Long ago, Jane Fairfax had given up on the idea of a marriage comprised in equal parts love and good sense, and soon thereafter, she had quite given up on the idea of marriage altogether.

 

A woman of her limited income was unlikely to ever receive a marriage proposal, and while that had always been well-understood, in her heart (romantic in nature, sensible in training) she had held out hope that a delightful and dashing suitor would win her love and save her from all her troubles. As a girl, she spoke of understanding that she was being given an excellent education in the hopes she could gain a position and care for herself, but at night she dreamt of escaping that fate. The stories were such, so would her story be.

 

The years passed, the reality of her poverty—and the reality of the marriage market—made Jane see how ridiculous her hopes had been. If her dearest friend in the world, Miss Margaret Campbell, had difficulty in securing an equal marriage partner, then surely there was absolutely no hope for a portionless, nameless Miss Jane Fairfax.

 

Her dear Margaret had talents enough, her watercolors quite good, and with her nearly £12,000 pounds, the family had expected her first season to go off well, but that had not been the case. Mrs. Campbell had tutted when summer came but assured her daughter that first seasons were never outstanding and that next year would prove different.

 

However, next year had not proven different. Mr. Campbell had laughed it off—these young gents were not the thing, too skittish, not so in _his_ day—and kissed precious Meg’s forehead, declaring they could not bear to lose her in any case.

 

Two more seasons progressed, and Margaret remained on the shelf. Jane tried to understand what it was (her little means? Her subtle looks?) but could not fathom why eligible gentlemen of appropriate family and income did not see what she saw in her friend: brilliance and kindness. She would make the greatest wife and mother—why could no one see it?

 

“Perhaps I shall join you in the governess trade?” Meg had joked, preparing for bed in their room after one of the last balls of the season. Miss Campbell had turned twenty-one only a few weeks back (they had all celebrated, but the usually merry Margaret’s heart had not been in it). She was a year older than Jane and never failed to make her friend burst with laughter, but tonight, Jane did not laugh. Instead she smiled, tighter than usual, reaching over to take Meg’s hand, “Do not despair.”

 

“Oh, I am not despairing—this way we can stay as we are forever!” Margaret giggled, and Jane joined her, but she could sense her friend’s pain at the continued rejection. Miss Fairfax was not the only one to pick up on the girl’s sadness, for the next morning, Mr. and Mrs. Campbell declared they ought to go on holiday, to the sea: Bath, Southend, or Weymouth, perhaps.

 

Weeks later, in a public dance hall, Margaret Campbell was laughing so hard at her own joke that she had failed to see the gentleman standing in her path. Their collision had knocked both to the ground, but that was how she had met the love of her life, Mr. Jamie Dixon.

 

Jane always declared that it was Margaret’s complete lack of mortification for nearly throwing a man to his death that ultimately won Jamie’s heart.

 

(While Jane had long given up any real imaginings of romance and marriage, deep in her heart, the secret wish had remained, until watching the courtship of her best friend, when she finally released that last, smallest bit of hope. She had admitted this to herself while dressing for a trip to the nearby cliffs. She would become a governess to support herself and her family—that was all there was to it. To join them, Mr. Dixon had brought along a friendly party of university mates, among them a Mr. Frank Churchill, and not a full twenty-four hours after swearing herself committed to rationality, the secret hope reemerged—but this she did not admit it, even to herself).

 

* * *

 

Jane resisted the writing to Mrs. Smallridge, fearing that Mr. Knightley should rescind his offer, but when they set upon a date, she forced herself to put pen to paper, kindly declining her previous acceptance of the governess position. Indeed, Saturday morning she sealed her letter and took it to be mailed. Handing it over, she inhaled a deep breath and released it, after which she felt no better (Jane had imaged she would feel better), but still, she drew up her courage for the second half of her errand and walked immediately to the vicarage.

 

It was only right that she give Mrs. Elton the opportunity to also write to her friend in the same time that Jane’s own letter should arrive—and thinking of the family, other provisions would have to be found. Jane regretted that she had wasted so much of their time, but there was nothing to be done about that now. Her weakness had added to her stretching out accepting the position, the ills of the heart delaying her travels, but she had not had the strength to do otherwise, and now she was to be married.

 

She had always hoped someone would come along and save her, but she had not thought she would feel such sadness in the saving. 

 

The housekeeper, Mrs. Wright, was a very warm and tidy woman and let Jane in with her usual ease and friendliness. She had been the housekeeper some time before the Bates family had moved into their Highbury apartments. Jane wondered how long she would last with the Eltons. The housekeeper had patience with Miss Bates, having seen a little of the maid’s younger days, and apparently, more than enough patience for the new Mrs. Elton. She showed Jane into the drawing room, where the new mistress usually sat at that time of day.

 

Jane called nearly every other day at the vicarage. It felt strange to be in this place that faint memories recalled. There were differences in the dressings and arrangements of the rooms, but still, she could remember looking up at the ceilings and the shapes of the water spots. She remembered which room had been her mother’s and hers.

 

“Why Jane, sit, sit, sit, I was just thinking how to do over your bonnet that we had discussed yesterday. Do not you think this ribbon would do nicely?” she asked, ringing for tea without much ado.

 

Jane hesitated—Augusta had taken on the idea of doing over her favored bonnet, which was a touch shabby and in need of a new ribbon for tying, much as she had taken on the idea of finding her a governess position: with more zeal than that which Jane approved and appreciated. She swallowed and decided to lurch into the worst of the revelation, “Augusta,” she considered reaching a hand to her friend, who was stirring sugar into her tea with the same vigor with which she threw herself into everything she did—Augusta Elton was not one for half-measures. Jane kept her hand to herself, “There is something I must tell you.”

 

“You don’t like the pink? Well, with your coloring perhaps not—”

 

“No, that is not the matter. I—I want you to know how thankful I am for all that you have done for me and the friendship you have bestowed.”

 

The woman smiled deeply, tilting her head to Jane, “Now, no more thanks are due—you have given so many already, and besides, Mr. E and I were thinking over the best time to make our way into that part of the country for a proper visit.”

 

This would prove more difficult than Jane had first surmised. Now she reached over and set her hand on Augusta’s, encouraging her to set the cup and saucer down upon the table. “Mrs. Elton,” Jane drew in a fortifying breath, “I do thank you, but I have written to Mrs. Smallridge to rescind my previous acceptance of the governess position—”

 

“ _What?_ Jane, you mustn’t!”

 

“—because Mr. Knightley has made me an offer of marriage and I have accepted him.”

 

Her jaw dropped and had the cup and saucer not been safely sitting upon the table before them, Jane imagined they both would have tumbled to the ground from her friend’s hand. “Married?” 

 

“Yes, Augusta.”

 

“To Knightley?”

 

“Indeed.”

 

For three beats, Mrs. Elton was silent, but then she burst forth into a great shout of excitement. Jane startled only a little.

 

“Why, Jane! My word, you have been a sly thing, have not you?” She gave the girl a light tap on the hand, “All this time, throwing off my help, when you should have said that an attachment was blossoming—am not I your dearest friend in Highbury?”

 

Jane’s head tilted, but she schooled her expression out of its initial confusion, for she was right: Mrs. Elton _was_ her dearest friend in the parish, outside her aunt and grandmother. Shaking her head a little (which Augusta took as disagreement, more than bringing herself back into the room), Jane begged off, “It has not been that long an attachment.”

 

“No, of course not,” Mrs. Elton replied, sarcasm evident, “dear friends as we need not speak of the length of the _liaison_ , no? Well-bred women as ourselves hold modesty to the highest regard, after all.” She nudged Jane, who worked her mouth into a tight smile. “A lady must never reveal her secrets, is not it so?”

 

Jane thought that Augusta did not know how right she was, in this particular case. Luckily, she needed not to make an answer, for the vicar entered the drawing room, quickly offering his own well-wishes. He was followed, not surprisingly, by Mr. Knightley.

 

She had expected as much, when she found Mr. Elton not with Augusta (for he liked callers nearly as much as his social wife), and after all, Jane and Mr. Knightley had discussed their plans for the way in which they intended to share the news about the village. While Mrs. Elton interrogated the poor man, Jane offered him a small smile. He deflected the inquires with ease, as he did all interferences in his business.

 

This was one trait that Jane had always admired in the master of Donwell Abbey, and indeed, had tried to emulate. On her returns to Highbury, she had begun to notice that, as in any intimate circle of acquaintance, there should always be those that put forth strong opinions (even where there was little experience). However, Mr. Knightley had continuously rebuffed such unsolicited suggestions with grace and good humor. This was not so for most others in Jane’s acquaintance. In this way, she tried to do the same, brushing off the well-meaning, but ultimately ill-founded advice of others kindly and firmly.

 

Whether she succeeded was another matter.

 

Their eyes caught one another’s, as Mr. Elton shared the news of the wedding invitation to his wife. He smiled, nodding imperceptibly to her. He was a good man, with a great deal of forbearance, she thought for not the first time, and now his forbearance would be in tolerating her. She looked away, Augusta asking her as to some of the details of their plans.

 

He extricated them this time, stating his intent to walk back to the village proper, but with a quick glance exchanged between husband and wife, the vicarage couple stood, declaring that they had business in Highbury, as well. Jane withheld a little laugh, for their business was most obvious.

 

Outside, the ever gentlemanly-Mr. Knightley offered Jane his arm, and they allowed the Eltons to set the pace—rather quick—and decidedly fell behind them. “Pressing business, it seems,” Mr. Knightley whispered.

 

She did laugh then, “So it would seem, but they will save us much the effort of telling anyone else.”

 

He chuckled at that, “True enough.” He paused, and Jane looked over at him, his expression unreadable.

 

“Are you well?”

 

Mr. Knightley returned to himself and replied, “Quite well. Lost in thought.”

 

She turned back to the path when he looked away from her. She was quite confused over his strange mood that swept over him without cause. Walking on, they could still hear the Eltons quickly speaking to one another. They were a strange couple, and it had not escaped Jane’s notice the way the pair disliked Emma Woodhouse and her Harriet Smith, but at least, they clearly liked and complemented each other adequately enough.

 

Her arm weighed heavily, resting in Mr. Knightley’s. She wondered what sort of pair they would make—a quiet one, she imagined.

 

They parted way with the Elton’s, who, Jane surmised, headed first toward the Coles’ fine house. Mr. Knightley stopped at the Bates’ apartment, but asked, “I realize that the Westons deserve something more than village gossip.” Without truly intending to do so, her face revealed her surprise and embarrassment. He caught her feelings immediately, “That is to say, Mrs. Weston has long been a true friend, since she was a Miss Taylor. It would not do for her to hear it from anyone but myself. Do you wish to come?” he asked.

 

Jane shook her head, “No, I will stay.” Her words were terse, and while she was certainly never one whom others would call loquacious, she instantly regretted the chill to her answer. Unfortunately, words to correct the mistake would not come to her—her mind was empty of all thought, except the mortification she should feel if she had to face his family.

 

No, she could not face Frank’s family.

 

Perhaps Mr. Knightley understood, for he replied a simple, “As you wish,” and made his bow before setting off for Randalls. She immediately breathed a sigh of relief the instant the door shut behind her.  

  

* * *

 

 

Jane passed the next hour quite comfortably, working on repairing her grandmother’s Sunday cap. It was well worn, but if she repaired the lace only a little and Mrs. Bates wore it a touch askew, it should last a while longer. She jumped at every sound, anticipating callers, but none were announced, and only the sound of her aunt’s chatter, requiring the occasional assent, filled their small rooms. However, when Patty announced Augusta, Jane was surprised indeed, for after the announcement, what else was left to be said?

 

Mrs. Elton entered the room, her face flushed with color and the vigor of activity. It was evident that she had been busy indeed, spreading the news of the engagement all throughout Highbury.

 

Her aunt took no prompting to greet their visitor: “Why Mrs. Elton, come to wish us joy so soon! What a delight! Please, please sit. I shall call for tea and a little pudding—”

 

“Jane!” their caller exclaimed, making only the most obligatory of curtsey to Mrs. and Miss Bates (though the former was asleep by the fire), “I have just had it from Mrs. Cox, who has had it from Mrs. Ford that you have not yet made a wedding order?”

 

Jane, eyes widened, and she replied (in her shock revealing more than was in her nature), “Indeed, I have not.”

 

Mrs. Elton, rushing over and taking the chair nearest her friend, said, smiling, “I knew it—pray, when did the wedding clothes arrive from London? You must let me see. I am a great expert in ladies’ fabrics. My father, you know—well, I am an expert in these marriage tasks. Let us see if you have chosen well your warehouses and dressmakers.”

 

Miss Fairfax blinked, overcome by both her friend’s energy and presumption. She looked over to Miss Bates for assistance, but for once, her aunt was stricken silent as she. Turning back, Jane ventured onward, “Mrs. Elton, I do not plan to make my purchases in London. I had planned to go to Fords on Monday.”

 

Her friend gave her an egregious expression: “Jane—Monday? What a ridiculous notion!” leaning around Miss Fairfax, she drew in the aunt, “Miss Bates, you must insist. There is not a moment to lose. However is Mrs. Ford to finish your wedding order in time? She may not even finish the dresses!” The woman looked near to exasperated-tears. “We must go now! There’s not a moment more to lose.” 

 

Despite Miss Fairfax’s declaration that Monday would do adequately, Mrs. Elton’s repeated expression on the hardship it would be for Mrs. Ford was enough to convince the aunt. Miss Bates woke her mother to let them know where they were going—"Just across the street, you know, to Fords, we always quite delight in all the window dressings when we pass by Fords, mother, yes, for Jane’s wedding clothes, can you believe it, mother?”—and that she need not worry over them, for she could rest through their absence. While this was imparted multiple times and quite loudly, Mrs. Elton presumed to order Patty to run to the vicarage to fetch a few fashion plates from Wright. “The new Mrs. Knightley cannot be seen in dresses from old plates, you know.”

 

Jane was not so sure—nor did she particularly appreciate Mrs. Elton’s leisurely way of ordering about servants not her own—but said nothing, as they donned their bonnets and purses to walk but a few steps across the street.

 

At Fords, the proprietor was not present, as was his preference. Mr. Ford was often in London making orders of his fabrics, plates, ribbons, and all the larger items of which the denizens of Highbury could possibly desire. Fords was a world in and of itself, one in which all possible manner of delightful furnishings of body and house could be acquired.

 

It was a place rarely attended by the Bates women.

 

They entered to find Mrs. Ford behind the counter. At first, the woman looked surprised, but quickly masked the feeling, “Miss Fairfax, Miss Bates, welcome—and Mrs. Elton, too. What can I do for you all today?” The question was unassuming, but Jane could not help but think she well-knew why they were calling.

 

Before the future bride-to-be could answer, Mrs. Elton spoke for her, declaring that Miss Fairfax was there to order her weddings clothes—or had not Mrs. Ford heard that Miss Fairfax was soon to resign her present state in exchange for the married one, _as Mrs. Knightley_.

 

Jane blushed fiercely, as Mrs. Ford wished her joy. It was the first of many. She would need to learn to conquer her feelings of unease at talking of the engagement (and, worse, the marriage). Her discomfort went largely unnoticed by her companions, Miss Bates offering more thanks than necessary on her niece’s behalf, and Mrs. Elton readily agreeing that they begin to look through their options for the laces.

 

Despite an inauspicious beginning, they progressed relatively successfully. Jane was able to restrain Mrs. Elton on cost, color, and trimmings, and her aunt, instead of being too agreeable, offered a prudence that surprised and soothed her. Quickly enough they set upon three day, visiting and walking dresses (“Jane, you absolutely _must_ have a walking dress for your visits to London, my poor girl, you _know_ how our Knightley simply must visit his family so very often throughout the year” exclaimed the vicars’ wife who had not been among the Highbury set for half a year), as well as a new dinner dress and ball gown. The latter had been resisted, but August again reminded her that after the marriage, there was sure to be many a dinner and likely even a ball in their honor.

 

After dispensing with dresses, they turned to more mundane items, choosing chemisettes, shifts and petticoats—Jane quietly declined Mrs. Elton’s daring suggestion of a colored petticoat, to which even Miss Bates blushed lightly). They easily settled upon gloves and slippers, but Jane resisted ordering a pelisse, for her current cloak was hardly worn and still quite lovely from when it had been purchased a few seasons back with the Campbells (and after all, it did match Mrs. Dixon’s old cloak), and instead she selected a new spencer in the style of one of Augusta’s fashion plates. Stockings and nightgowns were chosen most expediently, as Jane could not bear to have her aunt thinking over that particular aspect of her forthcoming nuptials.

 

Hats came easier. She chose simply and elegantly, and one in particular reminded her very much of a hat Mrs. Campbell often wore. It gave her a smile as she held it, thereupon Mrs. Ford said, “Come, take a look at yourself, Miss Fairfax.”

 

She felt herself blush, but at the urging of the shopkeeper, as well as her friend and aunt, she rose, walked over to the looking glass and put on the hat. Settling it into place, Jane appraised herself. The color did not make her look very pale, and instead set off her eyes, turning them more gray than blue.

 

It suited her. It suited a Mrs. Knightley of Donwell Abbey.

 

“Now, all that’s missing is your cap, my dear—oh, we have forgotten,” Miss Bates prattled, “indeed, we nearly forgot, you _must_ have plenty of caps, Jane dear, as you are soon to be a married lady.” Jane selected a generous stock of cotton and lace caps.

 

As Mrs. Ford wrapped what was to be set aside to send to Donwell Abbey on Saturday, Mrs. Elton continued with her counsel: “My dear, we yet need to get you a lace veil for the wedding. A bride can simply not be seen without a lace veil—now, which dress shall Ford do for you by then? We can match the patterns today, I daresay.”

 

“There is no need, for I shall wear my Sunday dress on for the wedding.”

 

Mrs. Elton’s eyes widened, “ _Jane_ , you are to become Mrs. Knightley—you cannot be seen marrying in an old gown!”

 

Jane felt heat rising to her face, but not from her usual embarrassment. While she had endured her friend’s suggestions and advice, knowing that in her own way, Mrs. Elton did care for her, the continued insistence was growing intolerable, “I may soon be Mrs. Knightley, but at present I am Miss Fairfax, and that comes with limitations—as you know, Augusta. My best dress shall do sufficiently, all my dresses were made not that long ago from the Campbells, and even more, I would not put out Mrs. Ford to finish a dress in so short a time.” Jane said this all in a measured, but firm manner, and Mrs. Elton blinked at her, mouth slightly agape. Indeed, the younger woman realized, it was the first that she had spoken quite so forcefully to her friend.

 

The silence was broken by Mrs. Ford herself, “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but I believe Mrs. Elton is right.”

 

Jane turned to the dressmaker, “Surely a dress of that nature could not be completed in time.”

 

Nodding, she explained, “You are correct, Miss Fairfax, but I do have a near-made up dress. Now, do forgive me, if you don’t like the idea of a dress that was done up for another missus, but she ultimately decided against it, but I think it’s rather to your coloring. Let me just fetch it for you to see.”  

 

Jane sighed to herself, but the woman returned with a lovely gown, in the lightest of blues, so pale that it nearly appeared white. It had lace enough to satisfy even Mrs. Elton, and modesty enough for her own sensibilities. Her smile fell: it was a beautiful dress, and very like her style, but it was a ridiculous notion to purchase another dress for the sake of bridal vanity. She turned to Miss Bates, “Aunt, there is not enough, I should think, for a dress only for the wedding.”

 

Her aunt shook her head a little, having been quite taken up with her calculations. While Miss Bates was well known to be rather silly and full of idle chatter, she was quite adept at her sums. For many years, it had fallen to the eldest Bates daughter to keep up the household accounts, and more recently, make economies for their shrinking income where she could find room. Therefore, the aunt had taken it upon herself to keep track of what they had for the wedding clothes and how much they had spent. Removing her own reading spectacles and returning them to her purse, she looked at her niece, “I believe, at the right price, there should be just enough, Jane dear, just enough, and of course, you know, afterward it shall be your best gown, as most brides do—indeed, you, Mrs. Elton have worn your lovely wedding gown a time or two, at Miss Woodhouse’s dinner, I believe. Yes, I remember, you told us of it, and what a lovely gown it was!”

 

Jane was dumbstruck—at every turn she was to be undone.

 

Mrs. Elton none too gently interrupted Miss Bates who had not stopped in her exaltations of the vicar’s wife’s wedding gown, “This was to be Miss Cole’s dress, was it not?”

 

“Yes, indeed, ma’am, but she should rather order a dress come this season in town,” Mrs. Ford answered, with a little visible disdain. Turning to Jane, she added, softer, “We could make some changes, like the plates? What do you think?”

 

Jane held in a sigh. It was true that her fiancé had once intended himself for another, and she herself had been meant for someone else, perhaps it was only fitting. “No,” she said, “it needs no changes. I should like it just as it is.”

 


	6. Chapter 5

The great business at Fords had taken up the whole of their Saturday, successfully consuming the hours for visiting, and therefore saving Jane Fairfax from well-wishers for one day at least. Sunday, however, was another matter.

 

At church in the Highbury parish, not only was there a good deal of bustle, but Jane spied many of those who usually absented themselves for illness or indolence, making their way inside to the fill the pews. The Bates women always arrived rather early, for her grandmother dearly loved the little church that had been the great work of her husband’s life. The Eltons, as always, welcomed them to sit in the vicar’s own pew, for her grandmother’s hearing was quite poor (and it was left unsaid that, first Mr. Elton and then the happy couple, had no other family to take the place. Charity was always easier when it was of no sacrifice to the giver).

 

Mrs. Elton, surprisingly, was already seated. Jane was indeed astounded, for Augusta was never one for early mornings and preferred to make her entrance when the majority of parishioners were already seated (“less bustling that way” she explained). However, the bride-to-be quickly surmised the reason for her friend’s unusually early arrival.

 

The vicar’s wife waved a well-gloved hand in their direction, patting the seat next to herself for Jane. “Well, quite the to-do today, do not you think?” There was no time to make a reply before Augusta continued, “Can you image the talk in Donwell parish? I imagine our Knightley quite put upon.” She gave her friend a happy pat on the arm and offered a belated welcome to Mrs. and Miss Bates.

 

Jane was both relieved and somewhat disquieted by her position in the over-warm room. While few dared to break with propriety and make the walk down the aisle to speak with her, a few of the older members of the congregation did amble over to speak with her grandmother. The few friends of her own that Mrs. Bates owned from her younger days rarely made calls, their age and infirmities keeping them to their own drawing rooms, but Sunday was a day when they could meet and mingle.

 

Today, those conversations ended with sidelong glances toward the young Miss Fairfax. Mrs. Elton did not discourage these attentions, drawing the grandfathers, grandmothers and great-uncles and aunts into a broader discussion—and Jane along with them.

 

Too, Jane could _feel_ the stares of others resting on the back of her neck. She adjusted her dress for what could have been the hundredth time (though she rarely fidgeted—Meg was the one who could not bear to sit still, much to Mrs. Campbell’s great dismay. Mr. Campbell was far more sympathetic, for never was the similarity between father and daughter more apparent than every Sunday, sitting in the pew, both with a shaking leg, positively bouncing the rest of their row). The remembrance, along with a bracing breath, gave Jane the strength of will to ignore the fraying ruffle on her sleeve and set her hands, clasped, back into her lap. 

 

She could not have been more happy when Mr. Elton appeared before the pulpit to begin the week’s sermon—the relief was somewhat of a shock to even Jane herself, for Phillip Elton was not a particularly persuasive speaker. However, Mrs. Elton made it a habit to ask after each week’s performance, and Jane was most gratified that her friend was always satisfied with the answer that her husband’s sermons were certainly well-rehearsed.

 

They _were_ well-rehearsed indeed, and now more than ever, did she indulged in merely tracing the pauses of the speech and the matching gestures. If not passionate, he was practiced. Perhaps, it was unfair of Jane Fairfax to expect more (and perhaps, she had been too indulged with London services). Was it not enough to do what was required? Was it not enough to be practiced and deliberate in the patterns of life’s expectations? Was that not enough to satisfy and be satisfied in return?

 

She swallowed, her mouth dry in the summer heat, and determined that she should think on other things, that such a premise was far too personal to answer at present.

 

The sermon seemed to drag onward, and when it was over the congregation nearly heaved a communal groan in relief. They retreated outside to escape the oppressive heat and wish for a breeze to dry the sweat from beneath their finest clothes. They were disappointed to find little wind and plenty of sun, but for Jane, it was not merely the heat that was oppressive: without the sermon, there was nothing stopping the residents of Highbury from quite crowding the Bates women with wishes for joy, knowing looks, and far, far too many questions. Though Miss Bates was her usual, talkative self, and Mrs. Elton by no means averse to contributing her own comments, there were moments when the well-wishers turned to the future mistress of Donwell, but what they expected, Jane knew not.

 

She stumbled through as best she could, with as few words as could be managed (with each response growing shorter and shorter—Mrs. Elton looked between her and the others perplexed). When Mrs. Stokes asked if the Woodhouses would be back in time for the wedding, Jane could not find the words. She heard herself stutter, without progress, despite willing herself to silence.

 

Mrs. Elton took a step forward, a hand to Jane’s forearm, “This heat you know—I believe they will still be in Epsom, you know, for that poor gentleman’s health, such a kind sir, is he not—”

 

It was then that Mrs. Bates clutched onto her daughter’s arm, nearly stumbling to the ground.

 

“ _Mother_!” Miss Bates cried, and at nearly the same time, Jane called out, “ _Grandmother_!” An uproar took over the circle and the onlookers. Voices rose, as well as calls for Mr. Perry.

 

It was quickly established that the apothecary had already gone home with his wife and children (Mrs. Perry did not like the idea of the whole parish gawking at their walking, when word had gotten out that their plans for keeping a carriage had not materialized), but out of the din, Mr. Weston forced his way forward, “Miss Bates, allow me—our carriage can take you back to Highbury. Mrs. Weston is already there, awaiting us.” He took the older woman by the arm, and she leant on him a good deal, with her daughter and granddaughter following behind, toward the awaiting carriage.

 

From behind them, Mrs. Elton trailed along, and as they got Mrs. Bates seated, she took Jane by the hand, “Worry you not, I will answer all your questions—take care of Mrs. Bates with your full attention, for I shall share your news.”

 

The absurdity of the moment struck Jane, and she nearly laughed, but instead forced herself to nod before hurrying into the carriage herself. Inside, she found she was seated next to Mrs. Weston, who was quite with child.

 

Jane realized that she had never before seen a woman so gravid, but her attention returned immediately to her grandmother. Miss Bates fussed over the older women, but Mrs. Bates, none-too-gently brushed away her daughter’s hands, readjusted her own bonnet, and leaning against the side of the carriage, closed her eyes for a nap.

 

 To Jane’s eye, she would almost imagine the older lady to wear a small, lop-sided smile.

 

* * *

 

Despite the paucity of their circumstances, Hetty Bates declared it quite necessary to call on Mr. Perry, though her mother huffed and argued that it was not needed in the least. Jane rather had the feeling that her grandmother felt no worse than her usual complaints of advanced age.

 

However, Mr. Perry was called to see to the old woman. He was followed by the Eltons come to check on Mrs. Bates’ health. Too, the Westons had tarried to ensure the older lady was put to rights, and with poor Patsy being ordered about, needless to say, it was quite hot and cramped in their small apartments.

 

When Mrs. Bates finally managed, with the help of the far more level-headed Westons, to convince Mr. Petty that she was quite alright, _thank you very much, only a little warm_ , the man finally left, with the rest of their guests trickling out behind him. However, as soon as the last of Augusta’s _adieus_ rang up the staircase, Patty was announcing Mrs. Cole.

 

Jane fanned herself, with a sheet of music she had considered practicing in the single moment of silence between visitors. She steeled herself for the conversation, the inquiries, the knowing glances, and gratefully, for the long-awaited farewells.

 

That was not the end however. Mrs. Cole (who declared that she had known ever since the night of their little musical dinner party—she did not mention that Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax had not been invited to the dinner portion of the party) was followed by Mrs. and the Misses Coxes, who were followed by Miss Nash and Mrs. Goddard, who were followed by Mrs. Wallis (who declared that she had known ever since Mr. Knightley gave them the last of his apples to be baked), who were followed by many of the Otway women, who were followed by Mrs. Stokes (who declared that she had known since Mr. Knightley had been borrowing a horse from the Crown far more often of late for his carriage). So on it went, until the time was unreasonably late for callers—and until, surely, they had seen _all_ the residents of Highbury.

 

By the time of their final caller of the day, Mrs. Hughes, Jane paid little heed to the exchange. However, when the older woman noted that she saw so little of Miss Fairfax, the girl asked, “How so, Mrs. Hughes?”

 

“Why your walks dear. No need for all those visits to the post office,” the woman leaned in conspiratorially, “now that everything is set.”

 

Jane blushed fiercely and struggled to recover her composure, “I—I do not know what you mean, I am often checking for letters from London and Ireland—”

 

“Why yes, Mrs. Hughes, you must know how attentive the Campbells—and well, now the Dixons, too—are to our dear, Jane. Hardly a week passes without at least two letters. Oh, the postage they must spend, but it is evident that they care so much for our dear girl, and you know, they usually include a mention of my mother, asking after her health and such, or myself—they are just so very kind…”

 

As Miss Bates prattled on, Jane took her measure of Mrs. Hughes, and indeed, the woman looked satisfied that letters, if any, were surely to Donwell (and not, as Jane had at first worried, suspect them of any other destination).

 

 _The letters_ : the realization struck Jane in that moment that Frank had failed to return her letters. With the preparations, the haste, and the scrutiny of the neighborhood, it had escaped her notice that no letter from Frank had arrived with her letters, and likewise, his were still locked at the bottom of her traveling trunk.

 

This was most certainly a problem.

 

* * *

 

 

On Monday, Jane woke early (waking early had not been difficult—it was simple enough waking early when one had not fell asleep), chose not to partake in her morning walk, and declared to her aunt that they would escape the many visitors through a visit to Donwell Abbey.

 

She neglected to tell her aunt that there was something she needed to address with the master of Donwell Abbey that could not be put off.

 

They found the household the same as ever, and if the housekeeper looked overlong at Miss Fairfax, no one mentioned it. The aunt and niece were surprised however to find not only Mr. Knightley finishing his breakfast, but his brother, Mr. John Knightley as well.

 

Any surprise the men felt at the woman’s early arrival, they quickly masked, with the older proclaiming, “How fortunate, we would very much like your word on the settlement.” He turned to his brother, “Wouldn’t you agree, John?”

 

The younger’s eyes slid from his plate to his brother to the visitors before returning to his plate. “Oh yes, quite right,” he managed, between bites of his bacon.

 

Jane smiled at the sight. It was not that she particularly liked John Knightley, but his oddities entertained her, and his reticence she well understood. He was a quiet man, and rarely worked to make himself pleasing to those around himself. Jane dared allow that she even envied the lawyer.

 

“Are you hungry? I can call for more plates—Jenny” he called to a nearby servant. Beneath her starched cap, Jane noticed a few red curls had slipped out. The girl looked to be a bundle of nerves. She worked to match the name to the young woman’s face—she would soon have to learn her name and many others, for this was to be her home, and she meant, in this at least, not to disappoint Mr. Knightley. “Please fetch plates for Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax.”

 

Another servant helped to seat the ladies, and as her aunt thanked Mr. Knightley (declaring that she was not hungry, could not possibly eat another bite, and that Jane herself rarely ate anything substantial, with the exception of the occasional baked apple in the afternoon, before they had run out of the second batch, but oh, how delicious that bacon and those preserves looked, perhaps just a small helping), Jane took the opportunity to observe the dining room of Donwell Abbey in the full daylight.

 

She had never been to dine at Donwell, with the exception of the evening a few nights previous, for during the strawberry party they had eaten from tables in one of the larger rooms that opened to the grounds outside. Trepidation struck her, the room so grand, finer than the Campbell’s comfortable home in London. She knew not how many servants Mr. Knightley kept, nor his income, but she suddenly felt rather small and young.

 

She felt rather ridiculous, and remembering the letter in her pocket, she also felt rather ashamed. She felt that past conduct precluded her from sitting at the mahogany table, at ordering servants, and at accepting the hand of this gentleman. She was hardly fit to watch over the children of a gentleman—certainly unfit to marry one.

 

“ _Jane_ , dear?”

 

Jane blinked, realizing her aunt was speaking to her, “Forgive me—what did you say, aunt?”

 

“Jane, I merely said that Mr. Knightley has asked you a question. He said—and Mr. Knightley, you must not think so in the least, for you would find that my mother and I, and certainly, Jane now too, are most free and easy with our meals. This is far finer than anything that we are used to doing.”

 

Catching his moment, when Miss Bates took a breath, Mr. Knightley repeated himself, “I said, you must think us quite slovenly today, Miss Fairfax.”

 

She felt herself blush a little at the address, “Oh—oh no, indeed, sir.”

 

He appeared to have largely neglected his own plate. Smiling, he added, “When your Campbells arrive, I assure you, we shall return to best behavior.” He motioned to the west side of the room. “We shall fill the buffets, but you must forgive John and myself—we have been dining alone for many years at Donwell and are rather set in our ways for family meals.”

 

At the mention of his brother, John Knightley looked up, swallowed a rather large mouthful, and pointing his fork to the older brother, added his piece, “What’s the point of all the fuss? If I have told Isabella once, I have told her a thousand times, half a child’s plate ends up on the floor, feeding the dog. Why should I bother putting it on _another_ table before putting it on the actual table? Insanity.”

 

Both the aunt and the niece knew little what to say to the declaration, but Mr. Knightley rescued them both, “Forgive my brother. John requires a few more cups of coffee before he is tolerable in the mornings.”

 

* * *

 

The settlement was dealt with simply enough. The one concern she had harbored was that she would have to speak on the issue of care for her aunt and grandmother should Jane herself predecease them, but thankfully, Mr. Knightley had even written that into the papers, despite the discomfort of the topic.

 

Jane blushed at the amounts—she was not particularly good at her figures, but the sizable portions certainly made her situation not only obvious, but rather discomfiting, particularly the jointure and pin money.

 

When Mr. Knightley said he did not think they should decrease her pin money, John agreed, “Miss Fairfax, any less would be impossible, surely?”

 

Jane wondered what Mrs. Isabella Knightley managed to spend but imagined that it to be quite a large sum. She dropped the issue.

 

“We will have to make some decisions,” Mr. Knightley said, shifting the discussion, “I have never kept horses strictly for the carriage, but that may be something we ought to revisit—”

 

“I see no reason why.”

 

Mr. Knightley tilted his head at the declaration spoken so freely, and after a moment, asked, “Why do you say so?”

 

Jane realized all three pairs of eyes looked to her, that she had spoken her mind. She rather regretted it. Clearing her throat, she managed, “All of Highbury knows you prefer riding or walking to the carriage. I see no reason why that should change simply because you have taken a wife.” Out of all the responses, Jane had not expected him to laugh, but laugh he did. It was a light thing, only a little sound, accompanied by a lopsided smile. “What?” she chanced.

 

John answered over his brother, “Good lord, what would Emma say?”

 

The happy couple froze in that moment, looking to the younger Mr. Knightley. This time, it was the owner of Donwell who cleared his throat, breaking the tension of the moment, “Then you’ve no other changes?”

 

She shook her head (wondering indeed, what would Miss Woodhouse say), wondering if all these efforts were for naught, after what she still held in her pocket, and replied, “None at all.”

 

* * *

 

With the exception of the Campbells, Jane had rarely heard how couples addressed one another. Mr. and Mrs. Campbell were surely exceptions. They dared to call one another their Christian names (when they thought the girls were at their studies or sleeping, but were really lurking behind doorways, holding back giggles), and were rather free with ‘my dear’s. Theirs had been a love match, and a happy one, at that, but Jane believed theirs to be the exception, for other couples of their acquaintance never seemed nearly as happy or as free with their spouses. Jane had no idea what her parents had been like, and her grandmother had never divulged the intimacy of her own marriage.

 

Mr. Knightley’s declaration had quite surprised Jane, but it was not an unpleasant request (if only a little new and odd) to call him by his name. She would of course, get used to it in time.

 

She would get used to it, if he did not break their engagement after reading Frank’s letter.

 

She was mortified to have to divulge this part of herself to Mr. Knightley. It was not conduct of which she was proud, but he must know. He must be allowed to enter into this arrangement with full knowledge of who she was and what she had done. She could not abide it otherwise.

 

She could not abide herself.

 

Silently, they caught up to her aunt and John Knightley, for the park around Donwell Abbey was not large, the majority of the estate turned over to crops and the orchard. What was more, Miss Bates and Mr. Knightley had stopped to examine a row of shrubbery bordering the lawn.

 

“George? What has gotten into you? Has it always been this shabby?”

 

“What are you complaining about now?” Mr. Knightley replied.

 

“These bushes, they’re all cut so low. What has gotten into Larkins?”

 

Jane nearly thought she saw Mr. Knightley— _George_ —roll his eyes, “Not Larkins—me—and don’t you remember why I had them chopped down?”

 

“Clearly not.”

 

The older brother sighed, “Let me remind you—about nine years ago, you may recall, I had trouble chasing you out of them—”

 

“Ah, right—yes, well that’s hardly a problem _now_. Get Larkins to see the undergardners repair _your_ damage.”

 

“Hardly _my_ damage.”

 

“It looks ridiculous.”

 

As the brothers tossed their replies back and forth, Jane worked to recall what had occurred nine years ago, and it was only a few moments before she realized that nine years ago Mr. John Knightley had taken Miss Isabella Woodhouse as his wife. Jane blushed at the idea but was rather sure that she now understood the brother’s squabble.

 

* * *

 

Jane Fairfax did not let herself believe that Mr. Knightley truly intended to marry her until she had told him about Frank’s letters. She was surprised when the next day, he showed her the same equanimity as ever. After posting the letter, he walked her and her aunt back to their apartments. “Any requests for dinner?” he asked.

 

“Dinner, sir—Mr. Knightley?” She corrected herself quickly enough.

 

“For Wednesday—tomorrow.” The Campbells arrived tomorrow, she realized. “You and your aunt and grandmother must be there to welcome them, of course.” She smiled at the thought of seeing Mr. and Mrs. Campbell, but the feeling slipped away at the idea of Mrs. Campbell’s discerning eye. She could feel Mr. Knightley looking over at her. He added, “I would have told Mrs. Hodges baked apples, but alas.”

 

That gained her attention. Jane’s eyebrows drew together. After a moment, she asked, “Are you joking?”

 

He nodded once, “Yes.”

 

“Apples are quite impossible, but strawberries would be lovely.”

 

“Strawberries you shall have.” He left her with a little bow, and Jane wondered if she should have thought of something a little grander—if a Mrs. Knightley would have known what to request—but Donwell was known for its strawberries, perhaps that was apt enough.

 

Once home, and after Mrs. Bates had begun her afternoon nap, Jane decided to ask a question of her aunt, that she felt she could only ask when they were alone with one another: “Aunt?”

 

“Yes, dear?” Miss Bates smiled widely and openly to her dear niece, and Jane’s heart tightened.

 

“The cottage—are you sure you do not wish to move to Donwell?”

 

The aunt blinked at her young niece, “Oak Lane is very fine, so very fine, my dear, much more than your poor, old aunt and grandmother are used to. It is too much—”

 

Jane sighed, and without checking her impulse—as she was most often doing—she moved to sit beside Miss Bates. “You can tell me, aunt. I only wish to do what pleases you best.”

 

“Oh Jane, my dear, dear Jane.” Her aunt put a hand to Jane’s cheek and drew her close into an embrace. “Sweet Jane, you have always done what pleases us, but—that is to say—” Miss Bates paused, finding herself in one of the rare times when she was at a loss for her words. She whispered, “I—we, your grandmother and I, would have you do what pleases _you_. You must not marry if that is not what you wish. You need not marry Mr. Knightley. We will be fine—more than fine—are you sure this is what you want?” As her aunt had spoken, she had grown in volume and tempo, but still held Jane close.

 

It was too much for Jane.

 

There was no one in the world that Jane loved so well as her aunt, and to be absolved, was overwhelming. The idea of breaking the engagement returned to her mind—she could still become a governess (perhaps she could even wait)—but then the realities returned, and Jane knew that she did not _want_ to become a governess, she did not _want_ to continue to watch her beloved Aunt Hetty and Grandmother in reduced circumstances, at the whims of generous and self-righteous neighbors.

 

She even did not _want_ to wait for someone who had been cruel to her.

 

“This is what I want, aunt.” This was the life she would choose for herself. There, in her aunt’s arms, she reconciled herself to marrying Mr. Knightley. She would go through with the engagement. There would be no change of heart or dissolution of their agreement.

 

This was to be her path.

 

She sat up and met her aunt’s stare, repeating: “This is what I want.”

 

After a moment, Miss Bates nodded and tried to discretely wipe away the tears that had collected in the corners of her eyes, “Alright, my dear,” she said, dabbing with her handkerchief.

 

Jane took the moment to look away and gently brush a hair from her face that had fallen loose (and if her sleeve ran over her eyes then surely, her aunt did not notice). “Now, what do _you_ want, aunt? Donwell or Oak Lane—or, there are other possibilities?”

 

Hetty Bates smiled, with a smile that made Jane feel like a little girl who had made a very silly mistake. Patting her cheek, “We old ladies would not wish to disturb you. It would be a little far, too, for your grandmother, I think.”

 

Jane nodded, and the matter was settled.

 

* * *

 

Jane Fairfax had not been expecting November to be quite so cold in Weymouth. Too, it was strange that the weather should decline at the same rate as the increasing attachment of her dear friend, Margaret Campbell to a Mr. Jamie Dixon. The cold oddly enough made her miss her family, and when she was out with Meg and Mr. Dixon, the feeling came to her, settling in the pit of her stomach, more strongly than ever. It was not that Jane minded chaperoning.

 

It was however, that she minded the company that Mr. Dixon tended to keep.

 

There was nothing in particular that disturbed Jane about Mr. Frank Churchill, but after only a week’s acquaintance, she was certain she had never met someone quite like the gentleman. He had joined the group of three for an afternoon walk by the seaside, and as was becoming the norm, the two were walking together, well behind Meg and Mr. Dixon.

 

Jane was most taken aback when the young man took the opportunity to make it excessively clear that he was not free to marry without the machinations of his aunt, the great Mrs. Churchill.

 

Without meaning to do so, Jane scoffed.

 

“What?” he asked.

 

“Well—”

 

“Yes? You were saying?” he prompted her along.

 

“It is a wonder that you should say such a thing? We are hardly friends, Mr. Churchill. What matter is it to me the constraints placed upon you by your family?” A great wave crashed upon the shore, and Jane was glad of it, not wanting to explain the conversation to Meg (but indeed, Mr. Dixon kept odd company—though in a seaside town such as Weymouth, choices for companions were rather limited).

 

“You speak rather freely.”

 

“As do you, Mr. Churchill.” Jane continued, “None of us are not without limitations. Whether by birth or by family. Your lot, Mr. Churchill, is one many, in fact, _would_ envy.”

 

He smiled—perhaps even smirked, “And do you envy my lot, Miss Fairfax?”

 

Jane blushed, “No, indeed, Mr. Churchill—I quite like my aunt, thank you.”


	7. Chapter 6

The steward and manager of Donwell Abbey, William Larkins, was in equal parts an intelligent, affable and kind man. Mr. Knightley was well aware the rarity of the combination, and so he forgave Larkins if, on occasion, the man was prone to harp on his master for his unmarried state, lack of children, and general comfort with being alone the vast majority of his day. To William Larkins, such a state was unthinkable.

 

Such a state was unthinkable, despite the fact that the man himself was also single.

 

However, the master of Donwell could not make mention that William Larkins ought take a new wife, for the caretaker had lost his wife the same day that Mr. Knightley had lost his father and mother. Some days, when Larkins was particularly insistent, Mr. Knightley had the gall to imagine it quite unfair that he could not make a like reply (he always felt immediate guilt for such a thought and generally exerted more patience with his steward than usual the rest of those days). 

 

What was more, Mr. Larkins had kept Donwell Abbey running when his parents preferred pleasure and entertaining to book-keeping and investments. Mr. Larkins had kept it running while the son grieved (while the steward himself grieved), and he had kept it running while he taught the son everything he knew about the running of an estate.

 

There had been moments of struggle as Mr. Knightley came into his own as an estate owner, when he disagreed with William Larkins, but the two men weathered the moments, as the reigns shifted ever more into George Knightley’s increasingly capable hands. Their mutual love and admiration for one another prevented most disputes and preempted possible turnover that was the usual tendency when a new heir took possession of a great estate.

 

Naturally, the news of Mr. Knightley’s engagement had utterly delighted William Larkins.

 

The constant grinning however—the constant grinning was harder for George Knightley to bear. The men sat in the Donwell study Wednesday morning before breakfast, thinking through the accounts once more. While the master had ultimately decided to forgo the near-thousand pounds necessary to keep an additional carriage horse, that by no means meant that cash on hand was easily found. They still needed to manage the funds to hire a manservant and cook for the Bates women in Oak Lane cottage. Larkins too, worried that the estimates for the repairs would fall short of the actual charges. Both men were worried (but trying their best not to show it). 

 

Knightley had acquired the cottage nearly a decade ago, after it had stood abandoned for far longer. The legal owners had neglected the property, but despite the desertion, obtaining it (completing his ownership of all of Highbury village proper, excepting Hartfield) had been difficult and cost far more than he had wished to spend. There was value to consolidating his land ownership, but today, he wondered if it had been worth it.

 

“’Course it was worth it, Mr. Knightley,” Larkins assured him. “Can’t have any more chunks left out of Downell.” Larkins had never particularly liked the idea that Hartfield sharply cut into the Knightley estate, despite well-liking the family who occupied it. Mr. Knightley would go so far as to wager that Larkins even looked forward to such a day as a Knightley nephew should take ownership of Hartfield (though the manager had never dared to mentioned such a notion).

 

Knightley sighed, “It will be tight this quarter.”

 

“Next too,” Larkins added, stroking his chin. “Can’t be avoided.”

 

“No,” he agreed, “it cannot.” Knightley again wondered over the prospect of asking his brother for a loan. He bristled at the idea. While he had taken care of completing John’s schooling and setting him up in London, the idea of speaking to his younger brother for financial assistance felt disturbing to say the least, but on the other hand, John did well for himself, despite living in some style, with a wife and five children born in quick succession.

 

“I know Mr. John thinks your wife to spend anything she touches, but, begging your pardon, sir,” Larkins said, “I don’t think that to be her way.”

 

Mr. Knightley looked up at the older man, but finally nodded, “No, nor I.” He shrugged, “Any little bit will help.”

 

Larkins nodded, but after a moment, he began to chuckle, shaking his head.

 

“What is so funny?” asked Mr. Knightley, amused.

 

The man stopped laughing and looked at the master of Donwell Abbey with an oddly sincere expression. “Not a day goes by that I don’t miss your father and mother, but I worried over the books every quarter, but Mr. Knightley never batted an eye.” He shook his head again, “I never imagined this.” He smiled, “A son of Mr. Knightley’s pinching his pennies tighter than even myself.” The man chuckled lightly, but then added softly: “May not be my place in saying so, but your parents, sir, would be very proud.”

 

“If confused?”

 

Larkins broke out again in a deep laughter, “Aye, sir, quite.”

 

Knightley too, chuckled at the remembrance.

 

* * *

 

Miss Fairfax, Miss Bates and Mrs. Bates arrived to Donwell in ample time to welcome the Campbells, but they arrived with so much time to spare, that Mr. Knightley had the opportunity to observe that his fiancé appeared quite discomfited. Jane could not sit still, moving from the couch to the window and back again. She tried to pick up a book but set it down not long after taking it up. She tried to give her attentions to her aunt and grandmother, engaged in discussion with John, but her eyes soon wandered.

 

Going to her, he suggested, “It is a little cooler along the orchard portion of the lime walk, shall we take a turn?”

 

Her expression more than a little tortured, Jane nodded, and accepted his arm. Despite his words, the temperature surrounding the house had not dropped, though they had reached the near-evening hours, but once beneath the shade of the orchard trees, the path was rather acceptable. Today, Mr. Knightley had neither the patience, nor the time, for delicacy, “Are you nervous?”

 

She nodded, “Yes.”

 

He turned to look at her. “Did they… know?” he asked, unsure how better to pose the question of the Campbell’s knowledge of her engagement to Frank Churchill.

 

Jane shook her head. “No, only Aunt Hetty,” she chanced a glance in his direction, before staring straight ahead, “after Box Hill.”

 

“Ah, I see.” He did not however, see. If they would not wonder at the sudden change in bridegroom, then what reason did she have to be nervous, he wondered. He certainly did not like searching for answers, much preferring open honesty, but he forced the question: “Then, why are you unsettled?”

 

Her expression looked pained, “They know me—have known me nearly all my life. There will be many questions.”

 

Mr. Knightley nodded. He had not thought of that. Being the oldest, he had always rather _handled_ John, rather than the reverse. John was his greatest friend, but they had never been the type of brothers to speak on matters of the heart.

 

His parents too had been all gayety and light: what matters of the heart where there to be dissected when life was all prosperity and indulgence? No, Mr. George Knightley’s gravity had come afterward, and it he carried alone. There was no one to question him on his choice of wife, or his motives—with one very boisterous, loud, importuning exception, but she was not here (and she was to be married). “What shall you tell them?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

He knew not how to answer her. For a moment, he thought to offer to release her, he thought to ask if this was what she truly wished, but then he chose the more cowardly path: “In any event, by tomorrow there shall hardly be a moment of quiet for conversation with Isabella and the children arriving.”

 

“I shall like to see them again.” She smiled at that, “especially the little ones.”

 

“Did you see them much in town?”

 

“A little, no more than in passing a few times a year. How old is Mrs. Knightley’s new baby?”

 

“She will reach her first year in September,” he paused, “little Emma. I am sure she is much grown since I saw her last—at Christmas.”

 

The child’s name sat between them like a weight. Clearing her throat, Jane inquired, “And the others?”

 

“You saw yourself the elder set, Henry and John, in the spring. You may remember Henry is the oldest, then John. The younger set: Bella—Isabella—and Georgie. They are both still small yet, but young George is, I must admit—if you can keep a secret—the handsomest and wisest of the lot.” 

 

Jane laughed in full, “No partiality forms the opinion, I am sure.”

 

“No, of course not,” he returned.

 

“I carry my mother’s name, you know, and my aunt believes the resemblance strong.” She wore a thoughtful expression, “I have often wondered if names do not guide our paths.”

 

“Hm, perhaps.” Knightley titled his head, “Poor, little John.”

 

“Ah! That is not fair to your brother, Mr. Knightley.”

 

He stopped them, and looked to her, “ _George_.”

 

She nodded back, “George.”

 

“It is the job of an older brother to be unfair.” He looked behind them, “Should we turn back to the house? It would not due if we were not there to greet your Colonel and Mrs. Campbell.” Together, they took their time walking back, the lime walk crunching beneath their feet.

 

* * *

 

It was still light out when the Campbell’s carriage pulled into the driveway of Donwell Abbey. As the couple exited the carriage, the owner greeted them, “You both are most welcome.” Mr. Knightley could see that the colonel and Mrs. Campbell were of an age. He wondered at that, as Colonel Campbell was a military man, marrying after he had reached some stability in rank. In such cases, the chosen bride tended to be younger than her mate, but the Campbells were far closer in age than that.

 

He was a stout man but despite the dust of the road, appeared decidedly strait-laced. Mr. Knightley had not expected anything else from the martial man. After a full breath of fresh air, Colonel Campbell took stock of the company before him. His eyes warmed at Jane. His eyes stopped on Mr. Knightley. Taking an appraisal, as if measuring a new recruit, he asked, “How do you do, sir? Hard to believe this the self-same young gentleman who warned me that he would ride to London directly if he heard that little Jane Fairfax was being ill-treated well over a decade ago.” The man gave a hearty laugh, shaking the hand of a rather embarrassed Mr. Knightley.

 

“Those were my words, were they not? Surprised that you should remember, sir.”

 

“Not every day a colonel is threatened, Mr. Knightley,” he replied, but the answer was all joviality. Leaning around the master of Donwell, the colonel added, “Why, John, he looks nothing like you.”

 

Mr. Knightley turned to Mrs. Campbell, making his bow. Mrs. Campbell was, if not handsome, then certainly elegant and neat. Her hair was done in a practical style, and her person all the more pleasing for a kind smile. She was in middle age, and bore lines about the eyes as proof, but the owner of Donwell Abbey saw something very inviting in her face. “Mrs. Campbell, pleased to make your acquaintance after hearing so much of you—of you both.”

 

The older woman gave him a measured look, “Likewise, Mr. Knightley.”

 

He found it hard to believe that she could have heard much of him from Jane Fairfax, but forgave the small—though polite—falsehood. Despite her trepidation hours earlier, chancing a glance at Miss Fairfax, he found her nearly grinning, holding her aunt’s hand. Her pleasure at seeing the Campbells, Mr. Knightley imagined, had outweighed her fears, and once the Campbells had exchanged introductions with Mr. Knightley, she lunged to embrace first Mrs. Campbell and then the colonel.

 

It was a strange sight, seeing Miss Fairfax so completely taken with emotion. He had known her to be quite reserved, and while she _was_ reticent, this was more forthcoming with her affections than he had ever known her to be.

 

“Shall we go into the house?” he asked, holding an arm toward Jane.

 

Stepping back from the colonel, she stared at the arm, and he realized this should be the first that they together would lead the way into the house, but the moment passed: she took his arm with her usual elegance of person, followed by the Campbells—Knightley knew John would have no trouble escorting a Bates woman on each arm.  

 

* * *

 

During breakfast the next morning, Mr. Knightley realized that he was rather impressed with the Campbells. The couple had arrived only a little heated and tired from their travels, and dinner had been more than amicable. Colonel Campbell was well-used to Miss Bates’ ways, and Mrs. Campbell had a way of drawing Jane into conversation that Mr. Knightley had never before seen. Even John he found in often conversation with the colonel. Apparently, they shared a number of London acquaintances.

 

Oddly enough, the quietest members of the party were himself and the nearly sleeping Mrs. Bates.

 

Jane and the Bates stayed later than a usual dining party, merely speaking with one another and sipping from their teacups, updating one another on what had happened since last they had all been together. Mr. Knightley listened a little to their conversation but was more than satisfied with watching them converse; he had never seen Jane Fairfax so at ease. She even laughed openly—four times—and spoke her mind far more than he had observed her like to do in Highbury. Her face reflected that air of relaxation.

 

He did not know what to make of the situation.

 

Likewise, in the morning, he was surprised to find Colonel and Mrs. Campbell already arisen and sitting down to a light breakfast. Though he was a little embarrassed to realize they had beaten him, he was pleased to see that Mrs. Hughes more than prepared. The housekeeper had laid out a delightful spread to rival Isabella’s at Brunswick Square. Meats, preserves and rolls of all kinds: Donwell was presenting its best face to the visitors.

 

“Good morning, Mr. Knightley,” Colonel Campbell greeted. “Are you expecting an army this morning?”

 

Perhaps it was only in his imagination, but he swore he saw Mrs. Campbell knock her elbow into her husband while reaching for her saucer, “Everything is most excellent, Mr. Knightley.”

 

“As a bachelor, I find that the hospitality of Donwell is often under scrutiny,” he admitted, adding, “and it is not every day that one meets the guardians of his prospective marriage partner.”

 

“Well said, sir,” Colonel Campbell offered, raising his cup.

 

“From what we have seen, Mr. Knightley, I cannot imagine what others have found to scrutinize at Donwell Abbey,” Mrs. Campbell added diplomatically—Mr. Knightley could immediately recognize the resemblance between Jane Fairfax and the woman who had largely raised her.

 

He smiled and accepting a cup of coffee from Jenny, standing at attention to the side of the room (her hand shook but a little. The girl was a new hire and rather young, but Knightley imagined she would grow used to Donwell soon enough), he replied, “I trust you both slept well?”

 

They answered that they had, their rooms most excellent.

 

As Knightley filled his plate and took his seat at the head of the table, Colonel Campbell handed him his newspaper, “I hear that my daughter has invited you to Balycraig?”

 

“Indeed she has, sir.” The colonel looked to expect more, so Mr. Knightley ventured, “I do love to travel, but as magistrate it takes some planning.”

 

The older man nodded, “Magistrate, eh? Jane had not mentioned. What is the crime like in this part of Surrey?”

 

His genuine interest drew in Knightley. There were few who cared about the work of a magistrate. With the exception of John, Mr. Weston, Robert Martin, and occasionally (when it involved his own interests) Mr. Cole, there really were none with whom Mr. Knightley could discuss the work, “Rural, sir, but the petty crime does keep one busy.”

 

Again, husband and wife looked intrigued, and so he continued, “To give an example: why a fortnight back I was called to investigate a theft of a chicken. The farmer was quite certain the thief his nearest neighbor, but after two days of searching, we found the actual culprit to be the farmer’s child of seven years who had decided to raise the animal in a makeshift coop away from the house.”

 

“Sounds like two girls I know,” the husband gave his wife a knowing look. “The girls could not have been more than ten when they near-tamed a stray cat, feeding it from their window every day for over a month.”

 

“I suspected when I kept finding cat hairs on their clothes,” Mrs. Campbell added.

 

Mr. Knightley laughed, “What did you do?”

 

“What else? Gave the cat quite the scrub down and a box of sand in the kitchen.” The colonel smiled, “Meg dragged it all the way to Ireland.” He waved a hand at Knightley, “So I’m sure you’ll be seeing it someday.”

 

“I’m sure I shall,” the gentleman conceded.

 

* * *

 

The estate of Donwell Abbey boasted many rooms, but for the first time in many years, at long last, it was very nearly crowded. With the Campbells, as well as the arrival of John and Isabella and all the children, and the near-constant presence of the Bates women, the house had taken on a lively character, with laughter, running, and chatter echoing through the halls.

 

It felt both strange, and oddly pleasant to Mr. Knightley, so very used to his own silence.

 

Isabella had offered to open Hartfield, but he had rejected the idea outright, with all the due civilities and thank you, kindly’s. He decided he quite liked the bustle for a change. However, Friday afternoon, between visits (for both the parishes of Highbury and Donwell knew of the arrival of the Campbells and London Knightleys), George heard a sound he had not heard for some time.

 

It sounded rather like a harpsichord.

 

He searched out the noise, and indeed, found the source: his mother’s sitting room. Even through the cracked door, he could hear the children, and walking closer, he determined to join in their play (and perhaps, gently ensure that they were being gentle enough with the antique instrument), but just outside he heard the voice of Jane Fairfax as well. He stopped, and instead chose to peer through the partial opening.

 

Truly, there she sat, playing flat, deep notes, as the children played. They giggled at the silly sound of the instrument long out of tune, and it struck him as most strange to see Jane among children, but after watching for a few minutes, he could see that her resolve, already loosened with the arrival of the Campbells, nearly fell completely away. Her expressions appeared open and honest with the little ones.

 

She did not have the spirits of their Aunt Woodhouse, but it was evident that she entertained them nearly so well and for as long (the nursemaids too, with little smiles hidden behind their hands). He was all amazement that his nephews and niece had rather taken to her, even little John who was known to be a somewhat taciturn little boy. Mr. Knightley had never imagined her health and temper to lend itself to the position of governess, but she should have been a grand one, perhaps even rivaling the beloved Miss Anne Taylor that was.

 

“Poor Harry,” John stated.

 

George jumped, and more from indignation than actual feeling he hissed a shush at his brother.

 

The younger Mr. Knightley paid him no heed (as was usual), “He shall have to make his own way in the world, like his father.” The man shrugged, “Or perhaps Emma and Fitzwilliam may yet fail to grow a family, and he shall have Hartfield, but I doubt it.” He shook his head, “No, now I must do quite well and prepare a place for him.” He sighed, but George knew the sound, knew his brother bore him no real ill will. Such was the life for second sons.

 

There was a heat about his cheeks, “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

 

* * *

 

So it was that they met at church Saturday morning.

 

The intimate wedding party was quite pleasant, with the pleasure of hosting the breakfast shared between the Campbells and the Bates but held at Donwell. The ceremony occurred with little fanfare, with Isabella lamenting that Emma and her father should be there, and the colonel lamenting the absence of dear Mrs. Dixon.

 

Mrs. Campbell and Miss Bates however, could not help but wonder at the rather grave expressions of the bride and bridegroom. The aunt, not one particularly given over to self-reflection could not help but remember what her niece had said during the excursion to Box Hill. Jane had said that only weak, irresolute characters (whose happiness must be always at the mercy of chance), would suffer an unfortunate acquaintance to be an inconvenience, an oppression forever. Miss Bates could not know that beside her, Mrs. Campbell was thinking of something she had always told her girls: that only weak, irresolute characters will suffer an unfortunate acquaintance to be an oppression forever. Mrs. Campbell wondered if she had been wrong in sharing the missive (but dearly hoped she was not).

 

Neither bride nor groom noted the worried looks from the older women.

 

(Mrs. Elton was satisfied that the wedding was by no means lacking in adequate lace trimming, and extremely happy when the Campbells declared the service exceptionally well-rehearsed).

 

* * *

 

Indeed, the news reached Epsom the eve of the wedding and not a moment before, and when Emma began opening the letter on her father’s behalf, she was pleased—for they had no letter from Mr. Knightley, with the exception of a short note on the state of Hartfield, since they had gone away to Epsom. She sat Isabella’s letter aside, for her sister wrote nearly twice a week. However, as Emma read aloud, she was struck by the strength of her own alarm at the news of Mr. Knightley’s engagement, but Miss Woodhouse could not think to her own feelings, for as she read the letter aloud, Harriet burst into tears.

 


	8. Interlude: Epsom Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We've moved into full-on crossover territory. Pride and Prejudice, with allusions to Northanger Abbey.

Despite his initial acquiescence, it took great pains and much cajoling to convince Mr. Woodhouse to undertake the journey to Epsom.

 

Earlier in life, Mr. Woodhouse, had indeed chosen to partake of the waters in Bath, but finding little to no relief, had since declared the practice futile—if not vastly dangerous. While not sea-bathing, the idea of taking the waters of Epsom from the wells and spas dotted throughout the luxury town still frightened the older man. Despite the apothecary’s harried endorsement, the daughter was hard pressed to gain her father’s full commitment. Nevertheless, Emma Woodhouse continued with their travel preparations.

 

“Emma dear, are you not quite sure that we really ought to be leaving—at this time of year?” was the constant reply from Mr. Woodhouse.

 

“Why yes, father, we must do what Mr. Perry prescribes.”

 

This reply did not waver the older gentleman’s resistance: “Emma dear, now I am feeling rather much better. There was some indigestion this morning—I knew I should not have had that second egg, though little, such as it was—perhaps we might postpone this trip?”

 

“Why no, father. Mr. Knightley has already begun to undertake inquiries on our behalf.” Lodging had quickly presented the most pressing obstacle to their journey. Her father would absolutely not submit to staying at an inn on the road, nor at any public bathhouse, which left only an establishment that could be let with its own private spa. While Epson was close enough for a day’s journey from Highbury—though a long one—the owner of such a house, excellent enough for the youngest daughter and private enough to satisfy the father, was not to be found among their acquaintance. Therefore Mr. Knightley had been enlisted to widen the search to among his broader set of friends, as well as the shared acquaintances of the Knightleys in London.

 

While Knightley wrote his letters of search and the servants packed the trunks (for Mr. Woodhouse needed a very many coat, despite the heat of the summer season) Emma wrote to her sister to assist in convincing their father of the necessity of the journey. Likewise, Miss Woodhouse requested Mrs. Weston provide her own contributions to convince the older man at to the merits of the endeavor. While both women agreed to assist, it was the effect of the latter, along with continued assurances of his youngest daughter that prodded Mr. Woodhouse to enter the carriage the morning chosen for the expedition.

 

(The former, on the other hand, had not been nearly as helpful, and perhaps even exacerbated a few of the father’s fears).

 

The night before their chosen date, Mr. Woodhouse began with more earnest than was his practice, at disavowing the trip, “Emma dear, I do not think it all that wise to rent a house—of one we do not know?”

 

“Why, More House is private and perfect, father—you cannot refuse to go when we have had a specific invitation.”

 

“Even so, my dear, I do not think it wise to be staying in the house of a stranger.”

 

Emma, worn down from preparations, the continued work of reassurances for Mr. Woodhouse, and the general worry caused by the palpitation episode, was brought to tears. Her resolve faltered, and with an unusual amount of feeling, she begged him, “Father, you must go—please, for me?”

 

It was this, a final tearful plea from his most steady, dearest child that broke down his resolve to resist the journey. Emma was not one to cry—in fact, he could not recall, later that evening, when it was the last time he had seen her actually shed a tear. Perhaps it was that awful day when he had attended his own wife’s funeral. He shook his head; he would not think of such things when he had his own dangerous journey to undertake in the morning.

 

So it was that daybreak found Mr. Woodhouse, Miss Woodhouse, the Westons, Miss Harriet Smith and Mr. Knightley standing outside of Hartfield. The horses were growing restless (as was the coachman, James), but Mr. Woodhouse would not be hurried. He took his time and asked his questions, many of which had already been resolved. “And you will write to us every week Mr. Knightley, on the state of Hartfield?”

 

“Of course, Mr. Woodhouse.”

 

“And if any correspondence arrives to Hartfield—”

 

“I shall forward it to you both, along with my own considerations on what is to be done.”

 

“You are a good man, Mr. Knightley.”

 

“Thank you, Mr. Woodhouse.”

 

The older man opened his mouth (likely to ask after the state of the gardens), but Emma anticipated him, “Father, we must go if we are to make it in time. I know how much you hate the idea of passing the night at an inn along the road.”

 

“Oh no— _no_ , what a dreadful thought—how could you say such a thing, Emma? We must be off straight away!”

 

There was indeed a flurry of “fare-thee-well”s and “it shall not be a very long visit”, before the father, daughter and Miss Smith were shut up into the carriage. The indecision of Mr. Woodhouse did not abate immediately after beginning the journey. Many an item was presumed left behind, before Emma was able to produce it from their bags within the carriage.

 

Likewise, Harriet’s presence was hardly a balm to Mr. Woodhouse. She was all hasty speech and lofty imaginings of Epsom—for she, like Emma, had never traveled farther than Highbury (or at least, not that she could remember). The ponderings were making Mr. Woodhouse all the warier. In fact, any notion (“Why, Miss Woodhouse, do you think we shall find the assembly roomsmost crowded”) put forth by Harriet, Mr. Woodhouse set down immediately (“Oh, no certainly not, to attend a dance at an assembly room—it would not be the thing”).

 

Wearing thin her nerves, Emma was put to the task of keeping Harriet from her dreaming and her father from his naysaying. “I have had a letter from Isabella, just yesterday, shall I read it for us?”

 

“Why did you not say last evening, my dear?”

 

She had not said because she had expected some form of amusement necessary on such a long carriage ride, but did not divulge this point, “There was not time, father, with all our preparations, but I shall read it now?” As she had hoped, as soon as she began the letter, in the slow, calming tone her father most preferred, Mr. Woodhouse quickly fell into a heavy sleep. What she had not expected was that Harriet too, leaned against the carriage window and quickly began to snore.

 

Now, finding herself quite alone, Emma indulged in her own concerns for the journey. Harriet’s short, little snorts were very nearly irritating—they had invited Mrs. Goddard’s parlor boarder because they had believed that Emma should not be alone while Mr. Woodhouse took the waters for most the day while in Epsom. Indeed, this had been one of her father’s first and most chief concerns. The invitation had been sent lightly, for Emma had not expected the young woman to make such a fuss over the trip. Traveling with a lady companion was not unusual. Both Mrs. Weston and Isabella suggested it as a proper solution, but Harriet’s overenthusiasm had been nearly too much for Emma to bear. Likewise, Harriet’s pleasure at the destination—the small, hardly fashionable, Epsom—made Emma feel her own excitement as rather silly and immature. This was not the case, Miss Woodhouse assured herself, but she could not help but feel it to be so.

 

In addition, Mr. Knightley had cautioned against the partner: “Emma, you shall be far more her chaperone and companion than she yours.” Mrs. Weston had decried such a suggestion, but watching Miss Smith and her father sleep, she wondered if Mr. Knightley had taken the point.

 

Looking out the window, Emma also did not know what to think of leaving behind Mr. Knightley. He had originally offered to accompany them—but the offer had seemed unexpectedly reticent—as if propriety and manners dictated he must say the words but they gave him no pleasure. Mr. Woodhouse had immediate declined declaring that who should be watching out for Hartfield if not their Mr. Knightley?—No, no, the gentleman must stay in Highbury. This pleased both men quite well, it appeared, and yet, for some reason it was less than satisfactory to Emma.

 

She had not given the feeling much consideration, until, as he offered a hand to assist her into the carriage—last of the party—he had nearly lifted the hand to his lips, but thinking the better of the action, he had instead guided her into the carriage to her seat without distinction. Looking awkward and ill-at-east, he had closed the door, tipping his hat to the three in turn, wishing them safe travels in a graver tone than his usual. Then, patting the door bid James depart.

 

Surely, he had meant to kiss her hand? Emma could not quite decide. If yes, then the action would have been welcome, gentlemanly and—she dared admit—rather gallant for Mr. Knightley. Something she would expect of Mr. Churchill, but not the staid master of Donwell Abbey. Why had he stopped at the last moment? Perhaps he thought them too close to brother and sister for such affections? But that had not barred his asking her hand at the dance at the Crown.

 

Watching the road pass beneath them, the sun rising higher in the sky, Emma could not make out his intentions. She could not imagine what it meant, and she rather wished he was sitting across from her for conversation while her carriage-mates slept and slept.

 

* * *

 

Late in the day, their arrival in the fashionable city made no notice. They were taking the very fine More House, gaining with the lease admission to its private bath. Her father was as pleased as was his practice, for he declared public baths most unhealthful. It had been worth it, Emma believe, despite the invitation requiring a goodly number of introductions by letter to contrive.

Their hostess, the Dowager Lady More was not present upon their arrival—nor would she be present at all for the duration of their stay. She had been made a widow some four years prior, and if Isabella was to be believed, still wore her widow’s weeds. Since her husband’s death her home had been always with her daughter Elizabeth Browning, of Horton Lodge. With the death of her husband, the late Sir William More, the baronetcy had gone extinct, and more than a few laid the blame at the feet of the wife, Lady Elizabeth More. While title evaporated, the seat, primary and secondary inherited by the daughter, the once-fashionable Epsom townhouse went only to the lady herself, however. She let it for additional income, despite her husband having set her up in relative ease—for it was evident well into their marriage that they would have no son who could provide for the Lady.

Having settled her daughter amply, she only ever disagreed with her dear son-in-law, Charles, about the monies allocated to the gardens of Bank Hall, the secondary seat for the extant More Baronetcy. The woman was of course, rather fond of her grandchildren, still babes in arms, and her only pastime of embroidering the More family motto, _comme je fus_ , on an piece of stray cloth that came her way. With the baronetcy ending upon her watch, having failed to produce a son and heir, she had to admit she was rather satisfied with her life, too low to even have been mentioned in the published lineages—she cannot say she regretted it. Born the wealthy daughter of a merchant, Elizabeth More was not a woman to give way or the final word. She increased her annual cost of living by letting the townhouse in Epsom. She had known it in her youth as a far more fashionable place, but since her own daughter had married and made her home elsewhere in Surrey, Epson had lost much of its charms (and her husband much the family funds at the races). She was pleased that she could increase her daughter’s pocket book and be able to maintain the style of living to which she was accustomed, and, if only every once in a while, she sighed that her grandson should not be a “sir” William, then the memory and the mumble “as I was” settled her back into complacency.

 

The old woman remembered when they had purchased the home, when the town of Epsom still boasted that it had been the favored watering hole for the court of Charles II. The couple had purchased the house to largely show that they could to those in the family who looked down on Sir William for marrying lower than expectation predicated—now the dowager widow used it as a mark of favor and a way to show her untitled son-in-law that she was well connected to the upper echelons of society (if only those that still cared to visit Epsom).

And, if the woman had not the memory of her youth, her title generally prevented her guests from complaining if she invited more than one at a time.

 

* * *

 

The Woodhouses found the home, if a little shabby, more than comfortable and elegant enough. Even Emma could find little with which to take issue. Naturally, Harriet Smith was dazzled and awed into a chatty sort of delight.

Mr. Woodhouse on the other hand, found much upon which to comment. “Why I have never seen a fireplace so small.”

 

“It is a home in town, father—there is not the room we have in the country.” His complaints did not abate with the fireplace.

 

“Why, can you believe how low these chairs sit? One may never get up again!”

 

“Perhaps we can take a chair from the other room and bring it in here, father.” Emma would not admit that it was trying. Her father was her dearest friend, and she delighted in making him comfortable, and yet, Emma nearly looked forward to his taking the waters the next day. Therefore, she suggested the party have a light dinner—including a middling portion of gruel for Mr. Woodhouse, made just as he liked it, for they had taken the cook, Serle, from Hartfield with them—and go to an early bed.

 

However, the thought of Mr. Woodhouse taking the waters of the home spa on his own, sat ill with two out of the party of three, neither of whom slept much that night (Harriet’s sleep, naturally, was deep and undisturbed).

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Mr. Woodhouse, moved slower than was his usual practice, but with the gentle nudging of his valet and daughter, it was only a little after the noon hour when he traveled to the base levels of the house to partake the healing waters of Epsom.

 

The spa room was tiled, with a large stone tub, built into the flooring. His alarm was raised, but the More manservant assured Mr. Woodhouse and the valet that there were steps and a seat built into the bath—and that the temperature was neither too hot, nor too cold, just as the Miss had ordered for her father. While only partially reassured, he allowed himself to be led into the bath and settled upon the seat—and, much to his great surprise the water was indeed neither too hot, nor too cold, “Who drew the water?”

 

“Myself, sir,” the servant repeated, “but the Miss came to check the temperature herself.”

 

Mr. Woodhouse’s heart warmed and he swallowed a few times to prevent tears from forming—his daughter was surely the most thoughtful person to have ever existed. Settling himself, the servant set a bell beside him, which he should ring if he required anything. He nodded, and between the bell and his own servant there to wait upon him, Mr. Woodhouse allowed himself to begin to relax.

 

While the waters were clear and the temperature decidedly pleasant, he had to admit that the smell was strange. He would have to ask the servant what caused such a scent. He was wondering if perhaps Mr. Knightley could read through some of the books from the Donwell library to learn the answer to the cause of the strange odor, when the door to the spa room opened. A chilly gust blew past him. Mr. Woodhouse began to state that he had not rung the bell—and that the servant should make sure the door was quite shut—when through the steam of the room, he saw that it was not the servant, but another young man entirely.

 

Mr. Woodhouse did not recognize the man, but could make out that he wore a robe not unlike the one he had found in his own room and worn to walk to the spa rooms, “I say, sir, what is the meaning of this?”

 

At the older man’s words, his valet leapt to attention, stepping between the new entrant and the bath. Holding up a hand, he said, “Apologies, sir, but you must be lost.”

 

The intruder tilted his head, “No, sirs, I am not lost. I have come to take the Epsom waters.” He paused, before adding, “Is this not the More Townhouse?”

 

“Indeed it is, but we have been welcomed by invitation to let the house for the next ten weeks,” Mr. Woodhouse explained.

 

“Yes, as have I, by Lady Moore herself.”

 

“That is not possible, sir,” Mr. Woodhouse stuttered. “My friend, Mr. Knightley assured me that we have rented the whole of the house—to ourselves—not some public set of rooms!”

 

The younger man sighed, “It seems Lady Moore has made a mistake.” The man shifted, and Mr. Woodhouse for the first time, noticed that the man walked with a cane, “But surely, this is a problem with a simple solution—it is only myself, could not there be room enough in this large a house for us both?”

 

“ _No_ —why certainly not! How absurd. Lady Moore promised us that we should have the house in private. There has been some great mistake.”

 

“I promise, a retired soldier should be no burden to you—I can make myself near-silent. I only wish to treat my leg—”

 

“No—quite impossible,” speaking instead to his valet, Mr. Woodhouse added, “Charles, see to this!”

 

“Stop—there is no need.” The other fellow rubbed at his face with his free hand, “Sir, I do not mean to give you distress. I can understand that my presence has caused you discomfort, and I shall depart directly.” The man dipped, in what Mr. Woodhouse could only assume to be a bow, but the man’s leg prevented a full motion—and his face revealed the pain in the movement. “Forgive my intrusion.”

 

As the man turned and limped to the door, Mr. Woodhouse was struck by the strangest feeling: great remorse. Watching the other man struggle to move, he was overcome and called out, “Now wait one moment, sir.”

 

The other stopped, straightening and turning slowly, “Yes?”

 

“Whatever is wrong with your leg?”

 

“It was broken, sir, at the knee.”

 

“My word—however did that happen?” Mr. Woodhouse inquired.

 

“In the war, sir.”

 

“And, it pains you still?”

 

The man took in a deep breath before releasing it slowly, “Every day.”

 

Mr. Woodhouse was moved further at this quiet admission, “That is unacceptable. Well-come.” he waved a hand, “come on then, you must try the water. I believe you will find it neither too hot, nor too cold—just the right temperature for healthful dipping. My daughter, you see, made certain herself.”

 

After a moment, the man hobbled over and gingerly lowered himself into the water (to Mr. Woodhouse’s great relief and curiosity, he did not remove his robe—perhaps the wound was unsightly, the poor creature). “A daughter, you say—now I know why you were displeased at the intrusion. I cannot think if my own ward was intruded upon in such a way—ah—” He hissed, as his leg hit the water, and holding the edge of the tub, he entered as slowly as possible.

 

“Why, sir, is it too hot?” 

 

“No, no,” he sighed, “quite—quite soothing, but the skin is has not entirely healed.”

 

Mr. Woodhouse nodded, “Such a great injury would take a great time to heal.”

 

“Indeed.” Finally relaxing into the water, the man shook his head, “Sir, you must forgive me, I have not even told you my name: Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, at your service—well, at your service as much as a cripple can be.”

 

“Mr. Henry Woodhouse is my name, and I too am quite the invalid—you shall be so shocked to see it.”

 

He smiled, “Then what a pair we shall make.”

 

* * *

 

At discovering, when she settled her father by the fire before supper, that the dowager had extended not one, but two invitations to renters for the summer, she was most vexed. “How could she do such a thing? A soldier too, at that!”

 

“Now, now, Emma, dear, I thought so too at first, but the Colonel is, I believe, in great need and in a great deal of pain—we must be generous. Have you ordered a good meal for tonight?”

 

The daughter stared at Mr. Woodhouse perplexed: she had never known her father to act in such a way to a stranger, particularly upon such a short acquaintance. Immediately, she set her mind to distrust this Colonel Fitzwilliam, and after dinner, would set about to write to her sister so as to discover the man’s origins. This plan, however, could not be, as her father had invited the man to dine with them and afterward sit for tea and cards. “Father—we do not know this man!”

 

“You do not, Emma dear, but I do, and he is all alone.” After a moment, Mr. Woodhouse added, “and he shall make a fourth for cards.”

 

This reply was most displeasing, and dinner did not improve her mood. She had ordered a very special meal for their first full day in Epsom: all her father’s favorites, anticipating his displeasure at taking the waters and being away from Hartfield, but their guest was late. They waited longer than was their practice, but finally decided they should sit down to dine. Having only just begun the soup course, the interloper in question was announced.

 

He made an attempt at a bow and made his explanation, “Please forgive me, Mr. Woodhouse—and of course, Miss Woodhouse—I find myself tiring quite easily with the littlest of exertion since my injury. I have quite embarrassed myself.” True enough, Emma noted a slight blush on his cheeks (along with a light spray of freckles. Those were the only things that marred his smooth skin. She was unimpressed).

 

Before Emma could offer a chilly reply, Mr. Woodhouse spoke up, “Oh, how very natural. We had quite the day did we not? I myself took a little nap before the meal, did not I, Emma?”

 

“You did, father.”

 

“Very wise, sir.” The compliment pleased the older man, Emma could see, as he smiled at the Colonel. Upon taking his seat, the soldier turned to Harriet, “You must be Miss Smith?”

 

The girl sputtered a “Y-yes, Colonel.”

 

He smiled, ignoring her evident nervousness, “Mr. Woodhouse told me of your great friendship with his daughter, and I think it very brave of you to join the Woodhouses on their journey. Such true friendship is to be commended.”

 

To Emma’s great displeasure, Harriet turned a bright red. “Harried and I have actually traveled together before, sir, so this journey is not so very new.”

 

“Have you, now?” he asked her, smiling, “Then, Miss Smith, my apologies, where have your travels taken you?”

 

“Oh, just to—that is, only to Box Hill.”

 

“Ah, the famed Box Hill!”

 

“Have you seen it, sir?” Mr. Woodhouse asked, hesitant (a worry flared that this gentleman, to his great horror, was perhaps something of an avid traveler).

 

“Oh no, sir, while the war has taken me throughout the continent, I have seen little of England’s many sites.” He took a sip of his soup, before adding, “With the exception of Derbyshire. My father and cousin’s estate is in that county. Although, I spent more time at my cousin’s in my youth—we are of an age, you see.”

 

Emma found the admission rather droll—if she had cousins, she was sure that she would spend much time with them as well.

 

“I say, Miss Woodhouse, this soup is most excellent,” he complimented, taking another sip.

 

While his table manners were rather pretty, she found the man himself infuriating. He sat there, boarding in her rented house, pleasing her father, eating her dinner, charming her friend. She did not trust him in the least. “Thank you, Colonel, but I daresay to a solider any warm meal must taste _most  excellent_.”

 

Harriet blinked at her friend, more than a little shocked at the nearly rude reply, but Emma paid her no mind. “Quite right, Miss Woodhouse, but before purchasing my commission, my Mother Matlock kept a very fine table—however, I regret to say, you have outdone her with your onion soup—but please don’t repeat that. She would be livid should she hear of my defection.”

 

Refusing to laugh at his joke, she replied, with as little feeling as she could convey, “I’m much obliged to you, sir.” Too, she committed the name to memory: she would write to Isabella immediately about this Colonel Fitzwilliam of Matlock and find out just exactly what he was about.

 

After dinner, she finished her letter while watching her father and the colonel play a round of backgammon. Harriet naturally cheered for both players and was sorely disappointed when either lost ground. While applying her seal, Emma noted that the man let her father win graciously, with only a hint of a smile—indeed, this Colonel Fitzwilliam was most untrustworthy.

 

* * *

 

While Emma awaited her sister’s reply, she maintained an appropriately aloof air when the colonel was present—and encouraged her friend to do likewise. She could not, however, admit to herself, that his presence was as inconvenient as it had first appeared: her father, it would seem, rather liked a chaperone who was more the invalid than himself.

 

It was strange to Emma, for she had never known her father to be particularly charitable to those sicker than himself (he seemed to like the distinction of being singularly ill all year round), but the colonel’s obvious affliction and the grace with which he bore it, made him a convenient companion. Indeed, they walked at about the same pace, required nearly as much rest, and to Mr. Woodhouse’s great delight, as he had been an invalid much the longer time span, he could be Colonel Fitzwilliam’s guide. The younger man accepted the advice, coddling, and incessant worrying with a forbearance that Emma had only seen in one other person: herself (for even their dear Mr. Knightley needed to retire some evenings to the quiet peace of Donwell, and the great Mrs. Weston—Miss Taylor as was—had been known to hide in the kitchens for a few hours when her father was at his most trying).

 

While Emma did not know if she trusted it—at the least, it made for an opportune houseguest. Her father did not resist taking the waters now having a companion at his side, freeing the girls to make use of their time in Epsom as they saw fit, which usually meant, Harriet begging to go about the town, and Emma, in her suspicions declaring they should not. It was one of these afternoons, when the colonel made an unexpected appearance in the drawing room, followed by Mr. Woodhouse’s man. “Miss Woodhouse, Miss Smith.”

 

As was his practice, he made his best attempt at a bow, by which time Miss Woodhouse had recovered her composure, “Well, Colonel, this is a surprise. Shouldn’t you still be soaking?”

 

He smiled in a gracious manner, “Your father was feeling a little more tired than usual—my fault, I must admit, as you know, our backgammon lasted a little too long last evening.”

 

A chill to her air, she smarted: “As I said yesterday.”

 

“As you did—Mr. Woodhouse has returned to his rooms to do the same and suggested I do likewise, and while I value your father’s advice, there was something I needed to do first.”

 

Emma frowned, “And that is, sir?”

 

The man pulled from his breast pocket a rather large envelope, “It had been my great hope to have this to you sooner, but as a poor, retired soldier, compiling the sum took longer than I had hoped.”

 

He blushed a little, and Emma wondered after his intentions, “What sum?”

 

“My share of the rent.” His smiled turned a little sad, “It was very...” he paused looking for the proper term, “remiss of Lady More to have put you and your party,” he offered a little nod to Harriet, “in such a situation of having one floor given over to someone else. I can only acknowledge that she is well advanced in her years, and for as long as she has been my aunt’s friend, has always been particularly strong in her faculties, with the great exception of memory.”

 

Emma tilted her head, “I though you said she was your friend and acquaintance?”

 

“She is—I met the lady at my aunt’s. I spend Easter at her estate, Rosings—do you know it?”

 

“I do not, sir.”

 

“Pretty enough place, and I must admit I am fond of it. Many years ago, before I went to the continent, I met Lady More.” He paused, and turning to Harriet, expounded in a teasing tone, “She’s just the sort of friend my aunt likes best: a lady of standing, and yet someone she can look down her nose at.”

 

The two laughed, Emma did not. “You do not have a great opinion of your aunt, sir?”

 

“No, you mistake me, I have a very high opinion of my aunt, but I am under no illusions as to her character. Lady More, with a husband dead and the title gone with him, is exactly the type of person my aunt tolerates. Of course, the More’s daughter married well, but not gentry, and the dowager herself, my aunt likes to remind, was a rather low match—she is perhaps my aunt’s dearest correspondence.”

 

Emma’s brow furrowed, “That is hardly sensible—”

 

“Lady Catherine is not a sensible person—that does not mean I do not love my aunt.” The colonel sighed, shaking his head (it was the first that Emma had seen anything but composure, or the rare and brief jolt of pain from attempting to move too fast on his bad leg).

 

It took her a moment to better take his meaning: “Lady Catherine? Sir, who is your aunt.”

 

He paused a moment and the slightest smirk took him, “Lady Catherine de Bourgh—do you know her.”

 

Emma wonders if he meant to ask if she knew _of_ her, “No, Colonel.” She was pleased at least to have a new detail to send to her sister. “I have not had the pleasure.” Again, there was a laughter to his smile that Emma did not understand. “Is something funny, Colonel?”

 

“Oh no, Miss Woodhouse, nothing at all.” Clearing his throat, he added, “but I believe your father was right—I am tired—and, it seems, I have taken up far too much of your time. Your father also tells me that you keep the Hartfield household accounts,” He passed the envelope to Mr. Woodhouse’s valet, Thomas (propriety would allow for nothing less). Thomas handed the packet to Emma. “I will not be offended if you count it. In there you should also find the dated letter from Lady More, confirming my agreement and the amount I paid.”

 

Emma shook her head, “I do not understand—am I correct in taking your meaning that you shall have paid twice for the same rooms?”

 

He nodded, “that is correct.”

 

“That is ridiculous.”

 

“It is only right.” he raised his hands (including his cane), to gesture, “Should Lady Moore fail to give over my rent to the actual leasers—yourselves—then you shall already have been paid.”

 

“She may never return your fee.”

 

“Yes, but now that is not your problem.” He smiled, moving away from the seriousness of their discussion, “Besides, I can be very persuasive.” He shot Harriet a rogue-ish smile (naturally, she dissolved into a small fit of giggles), “and now, Miss Woodhouse, can you be _persuaded_  to accepted my apology for the mishap?”

 

Sighing, Emma nodded, “If you insist.”

 

“Indeed, I do.”

 

* * *

 

The actions of Colonel Fitzwilliam—Colonel _Richard_ Fitzwilliam—became far clearer at the arrival of a letter from Isabella. Emma waited until she knew her father and Harriet to be asleep to point her finger. She knew the colonel on occasion sat by the fire with a final glass of brandy before retiring to bed—particularly if the weather had been rainy. Truly, after dinner and tea and quiet talk (no games that night, both men were rather weary), Emma slipped out of her room—listening she could hear Harriet’s quiet snoring the next room over—and down to the room they all preferred for after dinner. She found him sitting near as possible to the fire grate, leg extended onto an ottoman. He was slumped in the chair, holding a near-empty glass in his hand. His relaxed posture surprised her into silence—she had never seen him quite so at his leisure.

 

After a moment, he looked away from the fire, blinking up at her, “Oh—excuse my, ah, present state. You will forgive me if I do not stand—today was a bad day,” He set the glass on the table beside his chair and tried to raise himself into a more proper seated position, “Forget something?”

 

“I know why you’re here.”

 

He relaxed again, his hands moving to clasp one another in his lap, “Because my leg’s throbbing from the weather, and I’m not sure if I can make the stairs? Brilliant conclusion, Miss Woodhouse.”

 

At the very nearly rude statement, the thought flickered through her mind that the colonel might be a little drunk, “Not why you’re in _here_ —why you’re here, in this house.”

 

She waited, but he did not immediately reply. At length, he took up his glass again, and gestured for her to continue, “Well—go on, then—I daresay, you’ve been waiting for days to levy some such accusation or other.”

 

Emma threw her hands to her waist, “I have not!” she declared—despite knowing herself to be most false (but she could not admit that to _him_ ).

 

“Yes, of course—and you haven’t been glaring at me, determined to dislike me since the moment of our introduction.”

 

She gave an indignant little rumble at him, “How dare you, I have been nothing but pleasant.”

 

“Fine—as you say.” He waved his hand at her, “Now, then, let’s move on to your accusations so I can get back to enjoying my self-pity.”

 

The oddity of the statement struck her, but she made no comment, instead telling him, “You’re the son of the Earl of Matlock.”

 

He shrugged, at the evident statement, “And?”

 

“It is no wonder you were so quick to pay for your rooms—you must be ever so used to having your way. I’m surprised it took your father so long to send the notes.”

 

“ _My father_  didn’t send the notes, nor am I particularly used to having my own way—do you have something of substance to add, because if not, I ask you to please leave me alone.”

 

“You’re wasting your time—my father shall never sell Hartfield.”

 

“What?” he asked aghast.

 

“Hartfield! Surely you must be after it. My sister writes that you left town to search out an appropriate estate. Hartfield shall be mine and my nephew’s someday thereafter—my father would never, ever give way.”

 

The colonel stared at her, but in a moment dissolved into laughter, “That’s your great scheme? You are very funny.”

 

His humor at her expense set her temper flaring, “Your family has determined to see you set up, Lady More too, perhaps, and you’ve chosen Hartfield as your mark, come now, admit it.”

 

He finished his drink in one gulp, and with only a little groan, brought his leg to the ground, leaning forward to better stare at her, “If you are going to cast me in your gothic fantasies, I should think you could make a far better tale. Wouldn’t a logical, landless man of family looking to make an estate his conquest, be better off seducing the heiress?”

 

Emma blushed hard, and began to stammer, but he stopped her standing, pointing a finger at her, “but that’s not who I am—though I have known men who are. My tale is far simpler: a penniless, worthless soldier, cut off by his father, relying on the tender mercies of his few remaining friends, and who is, I might add, rather ashamed to stay someplace where his limitations would be more widely known and gossiped over all the way back to London.” He stopped, but began again, taken by the emotion of his own defense, “and I _like_  your father. He does not look down on me for my leg, and that is a rare quality these days. So I will thank _you_  not to malign me any further to him than I am sure you already have.”

 

“I—I haven’t—”

 

“Of course, you haven’t,” he added sarcastically, hobbling past her to the door. “I’ll be gone by Friday.”

 

When he shut the door with force, Emma jumped, and even the roaring fire did not seem warm enough for her.

 

* * *

 

That night, Emma could not sleep, and the morning found her conscience little improved.  At breakfast, she dared to ask her father, over his morning gruel (not too thin, not too thick), “Father, does the colonel ever speak of his finances with you?”

 

Her father gave her a strange look, “Why, no, certainly not—why ever would you ask?”

 

“What of Hartfield?”

 

Again Mr. Woodhouse titled his head, “We have spoken of our homes, he speaks well of his cousin’s table and poultry, but I did say that no one keeps a finer table than you, dear Emma.”

 

“Thank you, father.” she tried to smile, but it crossed her mind that perhaps she had been a little too quick to judge Colonel Fitzwilliam. She thought on the notion throughout the rest of the day.

 

That night, the colonel announced his intention to leave them by the end of the week. Her father and Harriet both erupted into strong declarations against the notion, which he rejected out of hand, “You are all politeness and courtesy, but I believe I have been very presumptuous in maintaining my lease in this condition.”

 

Her father’s expression revealed his sadness, “Colonel Fitzwilliam—I must be a dull companion in my illness—”

 

“ _No_ ,” he pressed, “Mr. Woodhouse, you have been kinder to me than many of those I have known for the whole of my life, and I have found greater pleasure here than I have experienced since my return to England, sir—and I must thank you for it.”

 

“Sir, if you have been so happy in my father’s company, then you _must_  stay,” Emma suggested slowly, “Perhaps you have been hasty in your preparations to depart?” she quipped quietly.

 

He held her eye, steady, and gave her a sad smile, “I would not have my intentions mistaken.”

 

Emma could feel the rest of the party’s bewilderment at their speech, “What confusion can there be when we are all friends here?”

 

He did not move for a few moments, but then nodded slowly, “Then perhaps hasty I have been, as you say.”

 

Mr. Woodhouse nodded in agreement, “Emma is always right.”

 

“Indeed she is, sir.”


	9. Interlude: Epsom Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This got long, so I broke it into two.

After dinner, Emma slipped downstairs once more, and of course, he was waiting for her. “Hello,” he began, rising to welcome her. “I—uh—I waited. Thought you might want to talk?”

 

She smiled, and took the other seat near the fire, her father’s preference since coming to Epsom. Unsure how to express what was on her heart, she glanced up at the colonel to find him watching her, having taken back his own seat, “We are all very glad that you changed your mind.”

 

He laughed a little at that, "Even you, Miss Woodhouse?”

 

She nodded, “Even me—you are very good to my father.”

 

He leaned back, just a bit, in his chair, relaxing a touch (though not as much as the night prior), “I am not inexperienced in such as he.” Emma looked at him perplexed, so he explained: “My aunt needs _handling_ , Miss Woodhouse.”

 

The statement sat ill with her: “My father doesn’t need handling—”

 

He held up his hands to placate her, “Do not mistake my meaning.” Smoothly, he explained, “All people are as they are, and it is our duty to make them comfortable—as they do for us when we were growing. I am not ignorant to the needing of a care-taker. Though I will say, your father is much the kinder of the two, even my cousin, Anne, is far less charitable amid her own afflictions.”

 

“The family is unwell?”

 

“In their own ways. My aunt thinks very well of her own opinion. That requires a gentle hand to sway her in more appropriate directions, and my cousin is indeed quite delicate; Her temperament naturally suffers for it. I spend nearly a quarter of my year with them and am used to making myself of use. I care for them dearly, but I am not ignorant to their imperfections—I must say, your father is nearly a joy by comparison.”

 

Emma thought that perhaps generous but stopped herself—it would not do to admit, even to herself, the tiring nature of her father’s nervous habits.

 

Tapping his own leg, he added, “Now, I quite fit in.” 

 

She very much wanted to ask him what had happened—for Isabella had not written as to the details of the accident, but she limited herself, and instead, bid him goodnight. At the door she stopped, “I think, Colonel, you fit well enough here too.”

 

* * *

 

The days passed amicably enough, but her father found himself feeling rather unwell one morning, with what he feared would be the beginning of a cold. He decided to forgo the waters for the day, and instead rest himself by the fire.

 

“Excellent idea, sir," the colonel declared.

 

Emma nodded, “Yes, father, we shall not disturb you, as Harriet and I were going to visit a few of the Epsom shops today.” Miss Woodhouse hesitated; she could no longer deny her friend’s desire to explore the town, but she worried that her father would react poorly to the news.

 

“What is this? Two young ladies driving alone in an unknown place,” Mr. Woodhouse declared, “No, certainly not.”

 

Emma opened her mouth to argue that she and Harriet were quite used to being on their own in Highbury, but the colonel spoke first, “I would not be opposed to accompanying the ladies, sir.”

 

Harried could not contain herself: “Oh, what a jolly time we should have!” She had been bursting with energies to leave the house, but Miss Woodhouse had been most severe that they should stay in, until today’s relent.

 

Emma was unsure (and not entirely pleased that her father thought her so incapable, not eager to accept the colonel's offer of assistance), “Are you quite positive you are not also tired?”

 

“I’m lame Miss Woodhouse, not dead.”

 

Her agreeable manner evaporated quickly at the joke, “Well I believe you shall find it quite dull, but if you insist.”

 

“Oh, Emma, yes, Colonel Fitzwilliam should see that you both come to no harm.” Mr. Woodhouse turned to the colonel, “Do see that they ride with the cover drawn up—the wind would be most ill-advised.”

 

“Trust me sir, I shall ensure that no one becomes ill.”

 

“Should you don your uniform, to frighten away any who would think to do you wrong?” Mr. Woodhouse asked.

 

Emma gritted her teeth, “Shall you bring your saber too?”

 

Her father did not catch the joke: “No, Emma, no weapons in the carriage!”

 

“As I am at your service, that shall be entirely up to you, Miss Woodhouse, of course.”

 

* * *

 

When her father considered the party suitably attired, with hats, shawls and throws aplenty, he allowed them to depart, retiring to his own bed for a pleasant nap.

 

In the end, the colonel was indeed persuaded to put on his reds. Oddly enough, Emma noticed that he looked rather uncomfortable in them. Perhaps, she imagined, his size had changed since returning home to better meals. (Even as she told herself this, she noted that the uniform hung on him a little loose—only a very little, and that fit was surely not the reason for his discomfited air).

 

“Shall we be off?” he asked offering Harriet his arm, the one not holding his cane.

 

“Where is your sword?”

 

He smirked, “You’d have me fetch it then?”

 

She sighed, “You’re going to be quite bored.”

 

“I’ll endure it best I can—come now Miss Woodhouse, it puts your father’s mind to ease, and I should like some fresh air myself.”

 

“You’ve not called for the top up?”

 

He tilted his head, “Shall I stay?”

 

Harriet naturally declared that he must come, and with a little huff, Emma said, “Come on then.”

 

Kindly enough, the colonel took the seat facing backward, while the ladies looked forward to take in the sights of Epsom, few as they were. They rode first around the old wall and then from High Street to New Wells. Their progress was halting however, for Harriet ordered the carriage stopped at nearly every third shop they came upon. At first, Emma accompanied her.

 

In a dressmaker's while picking out some very bright ribbons, Harriet dared ask Emma, “He’s frightful handsome, don’t you think Miss Woodhouse?”

 

Startling the mistress of Hartfield, Emma looked away from the window (away from the carriage), “I don’t see it—though I can imagine that many a girl would find something to admire.”

 

Harriet pouted at her friend’s declaration, “Not even in his red coat—so dashing?”

 

“No,” Emma shook her head, “he looks all washed out—almost sickly.”

 

“Well, he probably hasn’t been out much, you know— _with the injury_.” Miss Smith’s eyes grew wide as plates. “I wonder what happened. It must have been dreadful.”

 

“Yes, it must have been.”

 

* * *

 

Emma, as she often did, grew piqued by Harriet’s indecision and the task of reminding her friend what colors were garish and which of taste. Near the town square, she let Harriet go into a shop on her own.

 

“Do you tire of shopping, Miss Woodhouse?”

 

“No, indeed, Colonel, as you can see I have not brought back a single parcel.”

 

“Then do you tire of looking at pretty things?”

 

“Do you think that all that occupies girls' minds?” She threw back at him.

 

“No—you mistake me, I like pretty things as much as anyone.”

 

“Do you make it a habit then, sir, looking at pretty things?” she asked her silly question—what solider would frequent ribbon shops.  

 

He smirked, “Only sometimes, Miss Woodhouse.” Feeling a little warm, she opened her mouth to ask what he had meant, when the colonel added, “But believe you me, I have seen many, many things that were by no means pretty.” He was not looking at her, and for a moment he seemed to Emma to be quite far from her, “War is an ugly thing, Miss Woodhouse, an ugly, ugly thing.” Shaking his head, he smiled again, “You must not begrudge my looking at pretty things every once in a while—I have missed them too much to deny myself now—and besides, they never last.”

 

Again, she knew not what he meant, but the shop bell rang, and quickly enough Harriet deposited herself and her new parcel into the carriage, and they were off again.

 

* * *

 

“How was the adventure?” her father asked the three at dinner.

 

“Most invigorating, sir,” the colonel answered, “the wind not blowing in the least—and not a single person approached the barouche, and if Miss Smith wore one of her new ribbons every day of the year, she would still not have worn all of her day’s purchases.”

 

“Well, perhaps not quite so many ribbon,” Harriet added.

 

“Very good, very good—and how far?”

 

Emma answered that question, “Not so very far, father.”

 

“Indeed,” the colonel agreed. “I had hoped to pass the race track, but we needed to return.”

 

“The track?”

 

“Forgive me, yes, but I do enjoy watching a bit of horse racing.”

 

“Do you bet,” Mr. Woodhouse asked, his tone dire.

 

“No, sir, I have seen too many men lose far more than a handful of coin at the tracks—I’ll not be the same, after all, I am a penniless, resigned solider—but I should like to see the Epsom Downs again someday though.” Moving the conversation in a different direction, he asked, “Sir, how did you come to know of Epsom?

 

Mr. Woodhouse admitted that it had been the advice of the wonderful Mr. Perry—the colonel nodded, they had often spoke of the good apothecary. “And yourself?”

 

“I had heard of the place, and _A Forest of Varieties,_ of course, quite advises the place for the ill and infirm.”

 

“Have read it?” Emma asked him, surprised, for she had never seen him with a book in the evenings.  

 

“No, no, I am not as good a reader as I ought to be—my cousin read it and suggested I try the purging waters here, finding Bath not to my liking.”

 

“What of the other places, Weymouth, or Ramsgate?” she asked after the more fashionable watering towns.

 

His eyes flashed, “I shall never return to Ramsgate.”

 

Emma startled at the sharp tone, “Colonel?”

 

“I—forgive me, I, uh, I have a few too many bad memories of that place—it would not suit, forgive me for my forthrightness.”

 

The party nodded, “Goodness, I have turned the talk dark, let us think on lighter things. Sir, how was your rest?

 

* * *

 

Her curiosity, impossible to contain, she went to him once again, after the rest of the party had retired to bed. He smiled a half-smile at her and raised his eyebrows, “More accusations?”

 

“Hardly.” She sat down, rolling her eyes at him. She asked a question, one that she had been wondering since her talk with Harriet in the shop about his leg, “Colonel Fitzwilliam, why does your father not support you, since...”

 

“Since my injury?” he finished for her. “Be not alarmed, my father is not such the villain that he has disowned me because I came home a cripple—is that what they say in town?” The last was spoken honestly, as if such a thought had never occurred to him before that moment.

 

She blushed, “No, sir, that was my own—”

 

“Invention?"

 

She frowned, “There has to be some reason.”

 

“Should you like to know?”

 

She nodded heartily.

 

“My family, as I am sure you are well aware, are of some consequence. My father and his sisters married partners of great wealth and status. There was always every expectation that the next generation would do likewise as expected. My brother, the future earl, certainly did. However, there was, let us say a hope, that my cousins would wed.”

 

“Anne?”

 

“Yes, and that I should likewise, marry my cousin, Miss Darcy. She is everything that my family could hope for in a match: wealthy, prestigious and proximate. She is even pretty. This hope was made all the more clear at the passing of her father, my uncle Darcy, of whom I was very fond—a warmer man than the Earl.” 

 

“How so?” Emma asked, “How could it be more clear?”

 

“I was named her guardian, alongside her brother.”

 

“Guardian?”

 

“Until she reaches her majority and can oversee her own finances, in particular her fortune of thirty thousand pounds. She is fifteen years my junior, Miss Woodhouse, nearly to the day.”

 

Emma did not deign to gasp—for she knew well enough the power of fortune to turn men’s heads. “Why do you not wish to marry her? Do you not love her?”

 

“Oh, I love her—fiercely. I love her more, I think than any other person in this world, but as a brother only, and I will not marry without affection.”

 

Emma was taken aback by this information. While her own sister, as well as the Westons, had married for true affection, such matches were rare indeed among the upper echelons of society, “And your father?”

 

“He found this unacceptable.”

 

“He cast you out?”

 

“In not so many words.” The colonel sighed, “While I did gain from the sale of my commission, treatment for my injury was expensive to say the least. During my convalescence and recovery, my father—mother and brother, too—moved to more strongly persuade me to the wisdom of the match. Their money and mine paid the bills, but the company was far more unbearable.”

 

“What does your cousin, her brother, think?”

 

Fitzwilliam chuckled, “He thinks it a wicked notion—it has been a _trying_ year for Georgiana, to say the least—the world has treated her most cruelly and left her more than a little broken in spirit—”

 

“In Ramsgate?”

 

The colonel tensed, but then relaxed, “Fine, yes, trouble waylaid her in Ramsgate—it is my fault, really. Last year, during what would be my final shore leave, I suggested to Darcy that he send her away for a time, until my parents eased up on pushing the match—but we were wrong and Georgie paid the price, but please, I know your mind is given to imagination—please do not speak of this. She is a hurt child and I would not forgive her hurt a second time if she was the subject of gossip.

 

Emma nodded, “I—I promise.”

 

“I’m serious, Miss Woodhouse, that is a sin I would not forgive and would certainly avenge.”

 

“I do not think you a man given to—vengeance.

 

“I am, and I have.” He shook his head, “Anyway, my parents aren’t stupid; they know she would be susceptible to practiced charm, especially from one she already loves like a brother. Believe me, I would _never_ do that to her.” He paused, “It is of no consequence but Darcy would murder me if I tried.” The words were said in jest, but Emma wondered at the truth in them. “So I left.”

 

“You said you grew up together, with your cousin.”

 

“Indeed, he is perhaps, my dearest friend, and it is to his mercy that I have thrown myself. I used the last of my commission pay to water here—in the hopes that my health will improve enough to make something of a country squire.”

 

“Now, your health is not so bad as to prevent the life of a gentleman.”

 

“I can’t ride—can hardly walk, what kind of land owner would that make?” He shrugged, “Either way, I go on to Darcy’s after Epsom. He has been annoyingly kind enough to offer me a loan to purchase some property and set me up, now that my parents have decided I am quite worthless if I go against, as they say, my duty. I will pay Darcy back someday, but it is shameful, is it not, Miss Woodhouse, a man at the mercy of rich relatives?”

 

Mr. Knightley’s words briefly flitted through her mind, that a man can always do his duty. She thought, of any gentleman in her acquaintance, the Colonel Fitzwilliam showed both vigor and resolution, for his decision to flout the wishes—nay, _orders_ —of his family. “I do not find it shameful in the least.” He looked up from the fire, and she did not turn her eyes away, “In fact think it most noble.”

 

He scoffed a little, “A noble cripple, I have never heard the like.” His mien shifted in an instance, from scornful to playful: “Though I have certainly heard more far-fetched tales.”

 

Emma sighed, “I see, you shall never forgive me.”

 

“I already have, but let you forget? Hardly—certainly not so soon.” He leant forward, “You would grow too arrogant.”

 

She smiled at the notion. “Sir, I have never been called arrogant before.”

 

“The others were too a-feared.”

 

She rolled her eyes, “Ridiculous.”

 

“Indeed, you are.”

 

Shaking her head, she stood to leave, “You’re impossible.”

 

At the door, he stopped her, “Emma.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Good night—and thank you.”

 

* * *

 

It was becoming a habit, this meeting after the household had gone to bed. Emma knew it very nearly moved into the territory of impropriety, and yet she found herself going downstairs each night to have words with him. The colonel was different than any person she had ever met—light and humorous in one instance to revealing a darkness within him at the oddest of moments. She could not understand it.

 

He still would not tell her what he had done to his young cousin’s villain.

 

“We are at war—you do know what a soldier’s work entails, do not you, Miss Woodhouse?” he asked one evening, over a game of letters. Harriet had brought them, for something to do during the journey to Epsom (a silly notion, one could not play letters in a carriage), but they had served well enough in the duller moments of their time in the watering town.

 

“That is not what you meant, sir.”

 

She pushed a jumbled "liar" toward his end of the table.

 

He got it immediately, “Too easy.” To retaliate, he pushed a set of five block toward her.

 

It took Emma a moment to decipher the word “annoy.” She frowned at him, “Ha-ha.” With a finger to her chin, she thought, and gathering up five letters and then six, she passed him the two sets. “It is a question.”

 

Raising an eyebrow, he worked on the puzzle, “What—ah: “school friend”?”

 

“Yes.”

 

He shook his head, “No.”

 

“Not a school friend?”

 

He shook it again, smiling: “ _No_ , I’m not going to answer your question.”

 

Emma huffed, leaning back in her chair. “Then why tell me at all?”

 

“I did not intend too—I find myself saying many things to you I do not intend to say.”

 

Emma stopped and looked at him hard, but the colonel was at work on his next challenge for her.

Finally, he had the blocks, but holding them, he paused, “Here is your game, Miss Woodhouse.” The words were grave without any play.

 

This puzzle took only a moment. Emma gasped: “murder” they read.  She looked from the blocks to the colonel. She opened her mouth to ask her question, but instead, grabbed at the blocks: more than the word had come together for her. She pushed them all to him.

 

He took his time, righting them, but it was hardly a challenge: “seduce” and “ramsgate”.

 

“Well?”

 

He gave her a little nod, “Nearly—but you know that’s against the rules.” It was a joke, that she ought not be playing a proper name but his voice was entirely serious. “Have I shocked you Miss Woodhouse?”

 

He had, but finding herself in a gothic novel, Emma did not wish to admit it.

 

“Have I frightened you, Emma?” he pressed.

 

He had, and yet, she was not afraid of _him_. She did not answer, “How did you do it?”

 

“I may be nothing now, but I had connections enough in my commission—my cousin bought the villain’s silence and a place in the army, and then I saw to it that the devil was ordered to the front.”

 

Emma swallowed down the lump in her throat. “He died?”

 

The colonel shook his head, “not at first—I worried my plan should not work, but he finally died at Bidasoa.”

 

She nodded, but Emma knew not a jot about the war, “Was it a terrible battle?”

 

He shrugged, “I am told the losses were small, but I cannot for myself say.”

 

“You were not there?”

 

He shook his head, smiling in a rather pathetic expression, “I was unconscious.”

 

“I don’t understand.”

 

“You see, Emma, after I heard news that my mark had been cut down—I myself was struck by cannon fire, I nearly lost my leg in that battle and have carried the punishment for my vengeance ever since that day, and I do not regret it.”

 

The man must have committed great evil for the colonel to hate him so deeply. “Colonel, what happened to your cousin in Ramsgate?”

 

He stared at her, and she could feel him weighing the decision, finally, he spoke, “An untrustworthy man of an age with myself and my cousin Darcy, who Georgiana knew in her nursery days, nearly convinced her to elope for the purpose of stealing her fortune. She was devastated when her brother discovered them and revealed the scheme. I do not know if she will ever recover.” Wiping a hand across his mouth, he stood, pacing as best he could, “She was not unlike you, Miss Woodhouse, with a joy for life—she was, I admit, always a quiet child. You don’t lose two parents and retain that child’s boisterousness, but she was always happy—I never see that side of her anymore, I fear it is likely dead. I would kill him again a thousand times if it could bring back her light.”

 

“But that could never make her happy,” Emma blurted out, “if she is as you say, then it is only love and true kindness that can—can resurrect that part of her. It is your task to see that she is happy again, yours and your cousin’s and the family’s. It is that love that shall see her renewed.”

 

“What a speech, Miss Woodhouse, but I am afraid—what if she never returns to us?”

 

“Would you love her any less?”

 

He shook his head, “Of course not.”

 

“Then that is all that is required.” He nodded then, but said nothing. “Someday, I would like to meet her,” Emma admitted.

 

“I think she would like that as well.”

 

* * *

 

She came down the next night, and the colonel appeared surprised to see her, which was precisely the reason she had chosen to return. She did not want him believing he had frightened her away.

 

She had given much thought to his depiction of his cousin. She wondered too, if it would not be an apt depiction of himself. She could see the likeness, see the shadow of the man he had been. She was determined to prove that others would not forsake him, just because he had been changed.

 

They talked of little nothings: Mr. Woodhouse’s lack of improvement; Harriet’s latest watercolor monstrosity. They both retired earlier than usual.

 

They next night, he asked about her own tragedies, “Miss Woodhouse, why does your father dislike traveling?”

 

Emma sighed, “He has not told you?”

 

“No, but then, I have not wished to disturb him by asking—I thought to wait until I could ask you.”

 

She nodded, it was a kind restraint he had exhibited, “It is the same reason he does not like the seaside.” The colonel looked up at her with kindness, and she continued, “My mother fell ill on the road to Bath.”

 

“Oh, Emma, I am sorry I should have asked.”

 

“It is alright. It was a long time ago.”

 

“Time may make it easier to bear, but it does not heal such a loss.”

 

She smiled, “I really don’t remember her, but since, I am told, my father has become more averse to many things, including travel and the sea.”

 

He shrugged, “there are far worse ways to deal with such a great loss.”

 

“Like murder?”

 

“Do not jest about that!” He whispered in a near hiss.

 

“If I do not, then who shall prevent you from growing even more dreary than you already are.”

 

He threw the card he had been about to play at her, “I made a great error in ever speaking to you.”

 

“I do not think so.”

 

“Of course, you do not.”

 

* * *

 

The parties had been there little over a fortnight, when one day, Colonel Fitzwilliam’s demeanor toward Emma completely changed.

 

One moment, he had been teasing her about her threat to make him sit for a portrait, that she only intended to draw him with horns and a wicked tail, when after taking her wrist into his hand, and declaring that she would wrought such a visage with that hand—that he could not allow her to do it—his expression closed up and the darkness settled upon his shoulders.

 

Around them, the rest of the breakfast table could not see his change, “Colonel?”

 

Shaking his head, he asked, “Forgive me, what?”

 

“I asked if today you shall finally sit for me, father has decided to rest from the waters today.” She paused, “Harriet could read to you?”

 

He tried (and failed) to smile, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

 

Emma titled her head, “You’re impossible—you’re sitting this afternoon, and I refuse to accept any other answer.”

 

* * *

 

In the drawing room waiting for the colonel, it felt strange to be there in the middle of the day. Harriet, unintentionally voiced Emma’s concern: “Do you think he’s coming?”

 

“I don’t think so Harriet,” but at that moment, the man in question walked into the room. He still looked quite unwell and unlike himself to Emma. He made his usual half-bow and sat in the designated chair, which Emma had moved to the middle of the room. She could see him swallow—perhaps he did not care for his likeness? Miss Woodhouse found the idea strange, he was a fine-looking man as any, and his pants adequately hid his leg. Stepping forward, she asked him, “Should I take that?”

 

He shook himself, not hearing her, “What?”

 

“The—ah—your cane, shall I set it to the table?” She paused as he stared at her with an unreadable expression. “Or do you wish me to leave it in?”

 

The colonel blinked at her, finally asking, “What do you think?”

 

“I don’t mind it, but I think you would rather I not draw it,” she admitted.

 

He smiled then, in a gentle manner, passing her the cane, “How well you know me, Miss Woodhouse.” His smile faltered, and not knowing quite what to do, Emma took her place with her sketchbook, bidding Harriet read to them.

 

Of course, she had chosen one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels.

 

The colonel, upon realizing the selection, fell into chuckles, and Emma joined him. The tension, while not gone, eased, and they sat, happily for a few hours. They took turns supplying pronunciations when Harriet faltered, but when Emma caught his eye, trying to mimic on her paper the expression there, his expression grew most grave and untraceable.

 

* * *

 

That night, Emma found the drawing room empty. More confused than ever, the colonel’s temperament not improving over dinner (but he put on a pretense for her father’s benefit), she could not understand what had happened between them. Perhaps he still mistrusted her with his cousin’s scandal, or his violent intervention.

 

Sighing to herself, she decided to slump down in his self-designated chair, and staring into the fire, wondered what she had done to cause this rift.

 

It was only a few minutes before the door opened, the colonel stepping inside very slowly. Smiling as he shut the door behind him, she said, “Hello, I thought you weren’t coming.”

 

“I—I wasn’t going to.”

 

Emma's brow furrowed in frustration, “What did I do?”

 

“You?”

 

“Yes, _me_! You’ve been acting strangely to me all day.” She huffed, “I already promised I shall carry your secrets forever—do not you believe me?”

 

“I—Emma—my behavior has—”

 

“Nothing to do with me?”

 

He frowned, “I can’t say that.”

 

Scowling, she stood, “Then what is it?”

 

“I must leave.”

 

“What?” she declared, “No! You have only just started to take the waters. Your leg is not nearly well enough for you to leave.”

 

“But I must.”

 

“No! What will my father say? He shall miss you too much,” she stomped over, putting her hands on her waist.

 

“Mr. Woodhouse shall miss my presence—is that all?” he asked, his voice strangely melancholy in tone.

 

She did not understand him at all, “It would not be right for you to leave us so soon.”

 

“And yet, I find that I cannot stay,” his words were firm, but she did not understand his resolve.

 

“But why?”

 

“Can not you tell?” he laughed then, stepping a little closer, “I have been quite the fool—and done the very thing I despise.”

 

Emma blinked up at him, “What have you done except sit patiently with my father, entertain Harriet—tolerate me.”

 

“Oh, far more than tolerate, Miss Woodhouse—Emma.” Swallowing he took a step back, bracing both hands atop his cane between them, “Which is why I must leave you all—I will not do the very actions I fled in London. I must protect you—you all—even if it is from myself.”

 

She took in a little gasp, and with a great jolt, realized why he could not possibly leave them, ever, “No—no, no, _no_. You must not leave. I will not allow it.”

 

“You won’t allow it!” he asked—in a somewhat annoyed tone. “You are not my nursemaid or commanding officer—you cannot order me about. I am leaving in two days’ time; I’ve already sent word and ordered my trunks.”

 

Emma stamped her foot, “This will not stand.”

 

He scowled at her, “There is nothing you can do about it. I am determined.”

 

 _So am I,_ Emma thought to herself, and taking two big steps, deposited the smallest, most chaste kiss upon his lips. “There, now you can’t leave.” She threw up her hands, “You must stay and marry me.”

 

He stared at her unblinking, touching two fingers to his lips where hers had just been, but finally yelled, “You _impossible_  girl—I am trying to save you, and you do such a thing as that!”

 

She shrugged, “You would not listen to reason.”

 

“What if I wasn’t in love with, you arrogant thing!” he asked, loudly, not caring if they should rouse the servants.

 

She smiled, “I knew you were! So ask me already.”

 

He gritted his teeth, shaking his head, “Fine—Emma Woodhouse will you marry me? I am crippled, have no money, a little debt, and my parents despise me.”

 

“Yes,” she beamed, “I will marry you.”

 

Sighing, he took her into his arms and gave her a far less chaste kiss of his own.

 

* * *

 

Telling Mr. Woodhouse had gone surprisingly well. In fact, the idea of Colonel Fitzwilliam leaving moved him to such a state, that he too had asked if there was not some way that the man could return with them. To the couple’s great delight, they had admitted that there was _one_  way.

 

Besides, the good colonel could not live at Hartfield if they were not wed.

 

(Harriet naturally was polite and forgetful enough to not remind Emma of her previous remarks on her opinions over the colonel’s qualities).

 

* * *

 

Since the announcement, there had been a decided increase in the post to More House in Epsom. However, there had not been an increase from their dear friend, Mr. Knightley. Therefore, when a missive did arrive, Emma was rather excited. Upon opening the letter, she knew her father would want it read immediately, as she usually did with their letters from friends in quiet afternoons, when the men had finished taking their waters and needed rest or entertained.

Today, Richard was resting, and only Mr. Woodhouse was with them.

 

She began to read aloud, but her eyes noted the sentence before her lips could read it aloud, “My word—Mr. Knightley is to be married to _Jane Fairfax_!” she announced. Her heart gave a strange tumble, but before she could continue with her reading, Harriet burst forth into a great set of wailing and tears.

 

“Oh no—how dreadful,” her father declared instantly. “Miss Smith, you are completely correct, not right of all these couples.”

 

Emma sighed, ignoring the small slight, “Father, I think I should take Harriet upstairs.”

 

* * *

 

It was not until much later that Emma was able to return the house to any semblance of peace, and it was much later still that she could join Richard beside their usual fire. Shutting the door behind her, she let her head fall back into it, put out at the day.

 

The colonel opened his arms to her, “Come here.”

 

More than happy to obey, she joined him in his chair, sitting on the arm and leaning against him, “How is Harriet?”

 

“Finally asleep—she cried herself out.”

 

He frowned, “Poor girl.”

 

“Richard, I had not a clue. I could have sworn the name Frank Churchill passed between us—how could I have known she imagined herself in love with Mr. Knightley.” She had shared her suspicion that Miss Smith admired the recently departed Mr. Churchill, after all greater things had been known to happen.

 

He chuckled at his fiancé.

 

“What?”

 

“Well, my dear, it would not be the first that your imagination supplied more than reality could deliver.”

 

She nudged him, but knew him to be more than correct, “I have been so mistaken with Harriet—I must endeavor to—”

 

“Meddle less?”

 

“Know people better.”

 

“I think mine the wiser of the two.” He shifted, and settling his legs onto the ottoman, he wrapped his arms around her, letting more of her weight settle against him: once again, impropriety was very nearly breeched, and yet Emma could not find that she minded. “And what think you of this sudden engagement?”

 

She titled her head, “I was most wrong there as well. I would have sworn that he had no affection for her—but Mrs. Weston always wondered.” She looked down to Richard and found him watching her most intently. “What?”

 

“You care for him deeply, I think.”

 

“I do.” It was the first she had ever admitted it, and as it had all day, her own emotions troubled her: equal parts deeply melancholy and just a little irked that Donwell should be Jane Fairfax’s (perhaps it was only the loss that Mr. Knightley would no longer dine at Hartfield most evenings—but that could not have continued either way with the addition of the colonel to their lives), but when Richard squeezed her again, the chilly feeling drifted away, and she was only left with the warmth of his embrace. “I am sorry to have missed it.”

 

He gave her hand a little squeeze, “I am eager to meet them—to meet all your dear friends.”

 

“There will be many to meet, Richard.” She only says, “It is too bad for little Henry though.” Emma smiled at Richard, “I shall write them a letter of congratulations tomorrow, to both of them.”

 


	10. Letter: Mrs. Knightley to Mrs. Dixon

_My dearest Meg,_

_(Though perhaps I ought to have begun with_ “My dearest Mrs. Dixon” _as this is to be a formal letter and is thus fit to appear as such._ _These thoughts were not uppermost in my mind as I began this morning, so shall I begin again in a more proper fashion? As to the lines—perhaps I race ahead of myself, but Mr. Knightley has been most kind, and there is less need for economy of space. Let us begin again)._

 

 _My dearest Mrs. Dixon,_  

_Mr. Knightley and I thank you for your letter and your offer. As you know, the responsibilities of magistrate prevent our travel at present, but my hopes for the future are, as ever, to see you, and your home (and your Mr. Dixon as well, I suppose)._

_Before I can answer the great question (I see marriage has certainly not changed_ your _manner in the least), I must thank you ever much—I should never have thought to write my reply to the Miss Woodhouse on anything other than my own sheets, but that_ great lady, _as you say, would certainly have taken note. Though, I must confess, you were anticipated, for no sooner had I pulled forth my regular little quarto and pen the morning past than Mr. Knightley took note my set, for as you are aware, I have been a year absent from town and made do with what I brought from Weymouth. Well, he took us out (for your parents left us the day before) to a Donwell stationer. I had not been there before--little need to step farther than Highbury, our purchases being what they are, but the selection was rather fine. It is no west-end stationers, but suited. I protested, however, we left with a fresh quill, as well as a sharp little knife and a new pot of ink. He pressed also the most charming carved box, but there I held firm. So it is that I wrote my answer and thanks to Miss Woodhouse on the whitest paper—a long sheet—feeling quite afraid I should drip and ruin the entire piece. The pen too, I must be careful or I shall shred all my letters. Why did you not warn me marriage would be such an agony?_

 

_As I said, your dear father and mother are gone to London, and shall be much missed, as ever. They were very good to come to us straight away for the wedding and breakfast, and we were pleased they should stay with us into the week. The house is rather quieter for the departure, but perhaps that is because there was much ado about the Abbey. We had quite the uproar on Monday, but then I shall leave the pleasure of detail to Mrs. Campbell (and you to the displeasure of suspense, and serves you right for your impertinent inquiries)._

_Now then, I suppose your question must receive an answer since I have been married a week’s time. In truth, I find myself little changed. I wake the same hour in the mornings, and I take my walk to my aunt’s. They are indeed finding the cottage to their liking, a pretty place with ivy growing about the east side. After a little breakfast (you know I was never one for the meal) I play for them. In the afternoons, I sit with the women of the village, come to call (when can I expect these calls to conclude, Meg? I expect never, at least not Augusta’s frequency of visits to Donwell) or speak with Mrs. Hodges, though neither of us are given over to much speech, it would seem. As if I had anything to offer in the way of orders to the Abbey staff. In the evenings, I take supper with Mr. Knightley. Sometimes there is coffee or tea and a little reading before bed._

_You see, I find my life much the same as it ever was._

_Please tell me more of your trouble with the low-lying fields. Mr. Knightley was most curious as to Mr. Dixon’s solution._

_Affectionately yours,_

_Jane_

_(You see, we need not cross our lines now. And if you fuss over the length, I shall just have to keep the two shillings letter next.)_


End file.
